°      LJ 


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THE  WIFE  OF 
POTIPHAR 


—  WITH  — 


OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
HARVEY  MAITLAND  WATTS 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  COMPANY 

1911 


35H5 
I 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
HARVEY  M.  WATTS 


Acknowledgment  is  made  to  The 
Century.,  Scribner's,  Lippincott's, 
Ainslee's,  The  Critic,  The  Philadel 
phia  Press,  for  permission  torepub- 
lish  poems  appearing  in  their  pages. 


TO 

I  write;  you  inspire. 

Well — if  merit  be  mine, 
Whose  art  is  the  higher, 

Since  beauty  is  thine? 

Do  men  praise  the  glass 
That  reflects,  when  the  real 

Is  at  hand  to  surpass 
And  embody  th'  ideal? 

I  write;  you  inspire, 

If  the  taut  string  be  mine, 
And  heart,  'sounding  lyre, 

Well — the  music  is  thine ! 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 


IN  THE  CITY — IN  THE  COUNTRY     .    .  13 

FROM  AN  AEROPLANE 15 

STAINED  GLASS 16 

FOR  SALE — FACTORY  SITES  ...  17 

IN  MARCH 19 

AURORA  URBIS 20 

CAPE  ANN 21 

NIGHT  PIECE   (Boston  from  Blue 

Hill) 23 

IN  APRIL 24 

THE  EQUINOX 25 

IN  MAY 27 

To  A  BUTTERFLY  IN  THE  CITY  .  28 

IN  JUNE 30 

THE  GATEWAY 31 

IN  JULY 33 

NIGHT  PIECE  (Summer  in  the  City)  34 

REVERIE 35 

IN  AUGUST 37 

STREET  PICTURE      38 

MARIGOLDS  IN  NOVEMBER    ...  40 

AT  CLOSE  OF  DAY      42 


TABLE     OF     CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  REPLY  OF  GIGADIBS      45 

THE  REPLY  OF  GIGADIBS   ....  47 

SONGS  AND  SONNETS 67 

To  AN  AMERICAN  BEAUTY    ...  69 

FOR  ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY   ...  70 

FOR  THE  SPRINGTIME 71 

COMMUNION 72 

EVENSONG 73 

UNAWARES 75 

AT  THE  RECITAL 76 

FASCINATION 78 

Too  LATE 79 

AD  UNAM 81 

To  AEOLUS  (A  Song  of  Seasons)  .  82 

UNIDENTIFIED 85 

IN  AFTER  YEARS 87 

AT  HARVARD 89 

FOR  THE  WINTERTIME 90 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  GREAT      .  91 
FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  HALL 

OF  SCIENCE 92 

To  A  ROADSIDE  CEDAR     ....  93 

REVELATION      94 

FRIENDSHIP 96 

LOVE  AND  DEATH  97 


TABLE     OF     CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SONGS  AND  SONNETS — Continued 

AT  THE  STATE  HOUSE 98 

WHEN  ABSENT 99 

AFTER     HEARING     DVORAK'S     E 

MINOR 100 

AWAKENED! 101 

THE  ELECT 103 

UNRECONCILED 104 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  NEW  YORK    .    .    .    .107 
IMPRESSIONS  OF  NEW  YORK    .    .109 

AMERICA — A  TRIPTYCH 115 

AMERICA  (A  Triptych] 117 

To  CANADA  AND — KIPLING  .    .    .120 

FROM  THE  OTHER  SIDE 121 

IN  VENICE 123 

UNDER    THE   DOME    OF   THE   IN- 

VALIDES      125 

MONA  LISA 126 

IN  COLOGNE  CATHEDRAL  ....  127 
IN  A  NORTH  GERMAN  WOODLAND  128 

TANNHAUSER'S  CASTLE 129 

IN  FRANCE  (Souvenir  of  the  Midi}  130 
IN  ITALY  (Temple  of  Diana)  .  .  132 
IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  GALILEO  .  .134 
AT  ST.  PETER'S  .  135 


TABLE     OF     CONTENT 


FROM  THE  OTHER  SIDE — Continued 

THE  GREEK  TEMPLES  AT  PAESTUM  136 
ROME  (Six  Sonnets} 137 

HUMORESQUE 143 

HUMPTY-DUMPTY 145 

A  LINE  OR  So — IN  VARYING  MOODS  .  151 

EVENING 153 

MOONRISE  AT  SEA 153 

FATE 154 

DULLARDS 154 

WHEN  AMONG  FOOLS 155 

LOVE'S  SOLSTICE      155 

ACQUAINTED      156 

THE  OLD  DOOR  KNOCKER    .    .    .  156 

PORTENTS 157 

ACOUSTICS 157 

THE  BURIAL 158 

CONTRAST      158 

INEVITABLE 159 

REAPING 159 

SUCCESSFUL 160 

CONFESSIO 161 

CHOICE 162 

MEASUREMENT 163 

ON  NE  BADINE  PAS  .  164 


TABLE     OF     CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  LINE  OR  So — Continued 

BALLAD 166 

LULLABY 168 

WHEN  VENUS  VIES 170 

TIME— WHO  CARES 171 

HUNGER;  OR,  "THE  BREAD  OF  LIFE".  173 
HUNGER;    OR,    "THE    BREAD    OF 

LIFE" 175 

PARAPHRASES 189 

UEBER  ALLEN  GIPFELN     .    .    .    .  191 

ON  DRINKING 192 

LA  BONNE  CHANSON 193 

LA  BOURREE 194 

THE  WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR 197 

THE  WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR  199 


[xi] 


IN  THE  CITY— IN  THE  COUNTRY 


FROM  AN  AEROPLANE 

FROM  these  swift  planes,  the  earth — 
whose  myriads  creep 
In   insect    guise    below    these   new 

delights- 
Reveals  enacred  paves  in  changing  flights; 
Glory  unknown  of  old  to  storied  steep, 
Though    from  high    Pharos  stretched  the 

empurpled  deep 
When  Rome,  a  golden  shimmer  from  the 

heights, 
Vied   with  the   memoried  ivory   sheen   of 

lights 
Of  Athens  'neath  the  moon,  or  Corinth's 

sweep  :— 

For  toiling  upward  man  did  e'er  aspire 
With  ramp  and  vault  to  set  his  seal  on  high ; 
And  in  this  newer  realm  the  older  leaven — 
As   when   was   fettered   Jove's    disrupting 

fire — 

Works  marvel!   lo,  athwart  the  vast  of  sky 
Disdainful  at  the  very  gates  of  Heaven! 


[15] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


"STAINED   GLASS" 

(A  Winter  Sunset) 

A   SHIMMER  of  fire  in  the  sunset 
lanes, 
One  star  in  the  dying  glow; 
A  glory  of  gold  on  the  flashing  panes, 
All  gem-embossed  the  snow. 

And  etched  on  the  melting  amethyst, 

Swart  lines  of  the  ebon  spires 
On  the  ridge  where  the  cedars  keep  their 
tryst, 

And  the  north  wind  seldom  tires. 

A  rising  arc  on  the  eastern  marge, 

Deep  blue  in  a  hectic  flush, 
The  dusky  trail  of  the  earth's  vast  targe; 

Sudden  the  evening  hush. 

A  final  gleam  in  the  dulling  west, 

One  gleam,  and  the  night's  broad  pall, 

Silver  en  wrought,  flings  free — Then  rest: 
The  dark  is  over  all. 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


"FOR  SALE— FACTORY  SITES" 

(On  the  City's  Edge) 

If  |  A  WAS  here  the  anemone  heard  the 

call  of  Spring, 
The    brook    ran    limpid    and  the 

fields,  a-flower 

With  gold  and  purple  at  the  year's  last  hour, 
Were  strewn  as  if  for  fairy  welcoming. 
But  now  the  reaches  with  harsh  noises  ring 
Of  grinding  wheels  where  whispering  aspens 

grew, 
And,  where  their  spires  of  green  once  cut 

the  blue, 
Tall  chimneys  belch  with  sudden  flame  and 

fling 
Their   smoky   banners,    while   the   brook's 

scant  bed 

Shudders  from  searing  touch  of  slag-lined  lea; 
For    lo,    the    woods    and    wilds    are    gone 

fore'er — 
Yet  hold  regret!     Youth's  Dryad  dream  is 

dead, 


[17] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

But  all  these  throbbing  steam-torn  notes 

declare 
Dominion!    earth  and  its  deeps  in  human 

fee! 


[18] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


IN  MARCH 

THE  rushing  waters  fill  the  brook, 
The  sap  is  in  the  tree, 
The  Whitlow-grass  in  sunny  nook, 
Looks  up  at  you  and  me! 

The  frosty  frown  of  winter's  gone, 
The  earth's  in  melting  mood. 

Shall  we  untouched  remain  alone 
In  self's  chill  servitude? 

No,  no;  like  birdlings  in  the  dell, 

Gleeful  in  springtide  bout, 
Each  with  his  mate,  since  all  is  well, 

We'll  join  the  merry  rout! 


[19] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


AURORA  URBIS 

'A"  •  A  IS  not  the  elemental  fitful  gleam 
That  gives  a  beacon  to  the  ice- 

bound  night, 

In  drifting  splendor  at  supernal  height, 
Aloof  from  earth  and  man;  ah  no,  this  beam 
That  tints  the  tell-tale  clouds  reveals  the 

stream 

Of  life,  hot-blooded  in  the  pent-up  streets, 
Whose  many-starred  Shekinah  boldly  greets 
The    dark    with    radiant    contempt.      We 

dream 
Of    other    days;      of    marvels,     wonders, 

wrought 
Since  man,  freed  from  the  beast  that  bound, 

first  fared 

A-field,  and  rock  gushed  metal  at  the  call 
Of  Tubal  Cain.     But  all  the  Past  e'er  dared 
Before  this  glowing  miracle  is  naught: 
Force  serves,  and  Art  enthroned  is  over  all. 


[20] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


CAPE  ANN 

(Grapevine  Cove — East  Gloucester} 
HE  scent  of  roses  o'er  the  down, 


T 


The  cool  breath  of  the  sea, 
Green  paths  where  granite  masses 

frown 
In  gray  severity. 

The  waves,  reluctant,  scarcely  seem 

To  beat  upon  the  shore, 
But,  languid  as  a  summer  dream, 

Babble  of  Nereid  lore. 

One  reach  of  blue  the  morning  sky, 

The  eve  all  opaline, 
Save  where  the  half-moon  rides  on  high 

And  trails  a  silvern  sheen. 

The  thrush  is  in  the  apple-tree, 

The  lanes  re-echo  song, 
The  bell-buoy's  mournful  minstrelsy 

The  drifting  winds  prolong. 

[21] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Here,  far  away  from  din  of  town, 

Is  sweet  serenity, 
With  scent  of  roses  o'er  the  down, 

And  cool  breath  of  the  sea. 


[22] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


NIGHT  PIECE 

(Boston  from  Blue  Hill) 

FROM  this  roof  tower  all  fairyland  in 
sight! 
Toy  constellations  spilled  among  the 

trees, 
Revealed,  snuffed  out  by  whimsies  of  the 

breeze, 

Soft  glint  and  gleam  of  distant  city  light! 
Lo !  there,  by  magic  of  mechanic  might, 
Dark  imitates  the  wont  of  garish  day, 
Blots  out  the  stars,  and  of  its  kindly  ray 
Bereaves  the  moon,  defying  fall  of  night. 
But  here  the  olden  glory  reigns  supreme; 
Above  the  dead  horizon,  living  sky! 
And,  as  in  awe  its  massy  drift  we  scan, — 
A  circling  maze  of  myriad  suns  astream, 
Whose  black  abysses  mark  immensity — 
How  small  yon  mole  hill  seems,  how  petty 
man! 


123] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


IN  APRIL 

THE  maple  with  its  coral  spray, 
Splashes  the  woodland  edge; 
The  line  of  unawakened  gray 
Is  washed  by  the  greening  sedge. 

The  soft  clouds  drag  the  topmost  hill, 
The  slope  is  flower  be-sprent, 

With  life  and  love  astir — what  ill? 
Look  up  and  be  content! 


[24] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


THE  EQUINOX 

(Spring  in  the  City} 

THE   desert   streets   knew  naught  of 
living  green 
Though  buds  were  bursting  on  the 

upland  slope. 
Of    Spring    the    dusty    reach    gave    little 

hope, 
Nor  walls    unending,    gray    and    grim    of 

mien; 

But  lo,  the  imperious  sun  of  yestere'en 
With  equinoctial  splendor  smote  the  air 
Whilst  highways  golden  paved,  and  win 
dows,  rare 
With  jacinth  hues  aflame,  transformed  the 

scene, 
And  crimson  glory  limned  the  embattled 

west 
As  burning  fervor  spread  where  erst  the 

thrall 
Of  commonplace  held  ways  and  men.     A 

sign 


[26] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Of    souls    inspired,    who    once    the    mean 

possessed, 
Yet,  caught  the  ray  of  Love's  deep  fire, 

recall 
Life's  halcyon  days,  reflect  a  light  divine. 


126] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


IN  MAY 

A  NODDING  smile,  at  every  turn, 
Hardest  of  hearts  unlocks 
Where   croziered  fronds    of    silvery 

fern 

Shepherd  the  violet  flocks ; 
And  mid-air  dogwood  drifts  of  snow 
Repeat  the  bluets'  spread  below. 

At  dusk,  the  lacery  of  green, 

Curtains  the  glowing  west, 
As  lonely  thrushes  sing  and  preen 

Upon  the  poplar's  crest; 
And  scented  winds  go  sweeping  by 
Whisp'ring  a  summer  lullaby. 

Sudden  the  change  since  all  was  bare, 
Seared  with  the  winter's  strife; 

Oh,  that  my  quickened  soul  might  share 
This  swift  rebound  of  life; 

Exult  with  joyous  things  of  day 

As  skies  and  woods  proclaim  the  May ! 


127] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


TO    A    BUTTERFLY    IN    THE    CITY 

A 'OWN  the  blistering  lanes  of  sculp 
tured  stone, 
Whose  towering    fronts    mark    out 

the  Midas  bowers, 

Through  sun-baked  highways  in  the  noon 
tide  hours, 
O'er  glare  of  pave  where  jostling  thousands 

groan 
For    silent    stretch    of     woodland-    shade, 

alone, 
Or   quietude    of    nook    where  brooklets 

sing, 
Thou  flutterest,  beauteous,  on  inconstant 

wing, 

Whilst  commerce  rales  in  hoarse,  unchang 
ing  drone. 
O,   lost   on  Trade's   uncouth,   far-reaching 

strand — 
That    knows    not    banks    a-flower,    nor 

ripened  bough, 

Nor  wind-blown  reach  where  all  is  fair  and 
free — 


[28] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


Bright  symbol  of  the  poet's  thoughts  art 

thou, 

Bearing  to  men  engrossed  in  merchantry 
Enchanting  hint  of  far  Arcadian  land. 


[29] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


IN  JUNE 

SOFT  incense  from  the  resined  yews, 
The  sun,  entangled  in  the  grass, 
With  touch  of  passion  hope  renews; 
Desires  will  come  to  pass! 

The  rose  and  grape,  in  happy  strife, 
Yield  odors,  rare,  beyond  all  art; 

'Tis  "open  sesame"  for  life, 
And  joy  is  at  the  heart! 


[30] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


THE   GATEWAY 

AFTER  THE  BATHS  OF  ROME 

(The  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Station,   New 
York) 

WHAT  Rome  in  sheer  abandonment 
of  pride 
Flung    free    on    high    for    Purple 

Ease  a  lair, 
Fretted  with  gold,  a-gleam  with  spoils  most 

rare, 

Here,  to  a  nobler  use  soars  purified. 
While  from  its  silent  depths  controlled  glide 
The  slaving  monsters  as  the  people  fare — 
Of   all   things   past  the    free,    resplendent 

heir — 
Holding  the  earth  in  leash   with  naught 

untried. 
Lo,    'neath   these   vaultings   how   oblivion 

sweeps 

The  older  portals !    What  the  Golden  Horn? 
Or    Venice,    dreaming    where    soft    waters 
swoon? 


[31] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Or  Atlas  towering  o'er  gray  ocean's  deep? 
Here,  where  this  titan  gateway  greets  the 

morn 
Glad  millions  press  to  life's  exultant  noon! 


[32] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


IN  JULY 

THE   sun   streams   through  a  yellow 
haze, 
The  topmost  trees  are  still, 
The  bank,  with  drooping  phlox  ablaze, 
Quivers  beneath  his  will! 

The  straw  glows  in  the  mow-heaped  pyre, 

The  pebbled  spring  runs  dry, 
The  far  horizon's  white  with  fire; 

Blue  flame  the  very  sky ! 

Cloudless  the  unrelenting  day 

Burns  to  the  set  of  sun; 
And  night,  fierce-passioned,  holds  its  sway 

After  one's  work  is  done! 


[33] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

NIGHT  PIECE 

(Summer  in  the  City) 

THE  stupid  canopy  of  heaven  hangs 
low 
Thick  with  the  city's  murk.     Above 

the  pave 

The  Babel  towers  lift  a  narrowed  nave, 
Whilst,  deep  embowelled,  furnace  openings 

glow 

On  steaming  forms,  as  stifling  currents  flow 
In  reeking  lair,  the  modern  dragon  cave ! 
For,  mastering  all  but  fate,  man  dare  not 

save 

Himself  the  burden,  nor  the  arm  the  blow. 
Goaded,  he  struggles  in  the  sweaty  hope 
That  nature  cowed,  new  heights  attained, 

come  peace 

And  softer  outlook  o'er  some  nobler  scene. 
Ah,  God,  with  baser  things  we  more  than 

cope, 

Yet,  world  in  hand,  toil  on  without  surcease, 
To  lose,  in  gaining  all,  the  life  serene! 


[34] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


REVERIE 

(August  on  Conanicut) 

THE  scented  heath  breaks  rock-riven 
to  the  shore, 
The  sea  is  still; 

The  drowsy  winds  drift  through  the  vine- 
clad  door, 
And  have  their  will 
Of  downs  a-flower  and  beach  with  tide-loot 

strewn, 
Whilst  all  the  mist-touched   coves   where 

waters  droon 
Quiver   to   dreamland   under   the   August 

moon; 
A  witching  dreamland  under  the  August 

moon, 
The  August  moon! 

Across  the  filmy  path  of  light-tipped  waves 

My  fancy  flies 
To  silvern  distance  where  the  spirit  craves 

Some  glad  surprise, 


[35 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

And,  of  the  hidden,  asks   but   one  sweet 

boon — 

Love  in  lone  life,  as  night  winds  croon 
And  seas  are  magic  under  the  August  moon; 
All  molten  magic  under  the  August  moon, 
The  August  moon! 


[36] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


IN  AUGUST 

BY  graveled  roadside  at  the  edge 
The   creeping   vine's    white    trum 
pets  blare, 
Signaling  across  to  tawny  ledge 

Where  orange  milkweed  blossoms  flare. 

And,  near  the  wood  where  reeds  are  lush, 

The  roseate  mallows  riot  free, 
Where  regal  lilies  in  the  hush 

Of  melting  noons  droop  gracefully. 

At  eve  the  insect  myriads  fill 

The  fruiting  fields  with  strident  lay, 

And  sultry  night  hours  loudly  shrill 
With  echoes  of  the  vocal  day. 


[37] 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 

STREET  PICTURE 

(The  Reverie  of  the  Blind) 

NO  break  of  dawn  with  roseate  hue 
Foretells    the    day    to    ravished 
eyes; 
Nor  does  the  glowing  noon  review 

The  flight  of  time,  nor  even's  skies 
When  all  the  street  is  color  strown. 
Ah  no,  in  one  gray  monotone 
The  hours  waste.     I  wait,  alone. 
All  day  long  here — A  coin  in  cup  ? — you  hear 

my  cry. 

For  life  to  me  is  but  the  rush  and  rustle  of 
the  passers  by. 

No  doubt  Madonna  faces  cheer, 

As  tributes  paid  to  wretchedness, 
Or  painted  Vice  gives  sidelong  leer, 

Full  mindful  of  the  world's  harsh  stress. 
While  Wealth,  encoached,  in  noisy  show 
Goes  whirling  by,  the  poor,  who  know 
The  brotherhood  of  common  woe, 

[38] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Drop  in  their  mite, — May  God  be  kind! — 

as  loud  I  cry. 
For  life  to  me  is  but  the  rush  and  rustle  of 

the  passers  by. 

At  times  the  shouts  of  crowding  throng 
Proclaim  some  spectacle  of  state. 

Forgotten,  while  exult  the  strong, 
I  catch  the  undertone  of  fate : 

Men  come,  men  go,  the  mob's  the  same 

The  plaudits  go  to  place  and  name, 

And  tramp  of  thousands  echoes  fame. 

To-day  they  press,  to-morrow,  curse — Ah, 
hear  my  cry! 

For  life  to  me  is  but  the  rush  and  rustle  of 
the  passers  by. 


[39] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAB 


MARIGOLDS  IN  NOVEMBER 

YELLOW  filched  from  gorgeous  noons, 
Orange  of  the  setting  sun, 
Here  a  splash  of  warm  maroons 
Seen  before  the  night's  begun: 
Though  the  air  is  bleak  and  cold 
You  are  laughing,  marigold. 


Frost  has  touched  the  Summer  blooms, 
Blight  has  marked  them  for  its  own; 

But,  dispeller  of  earth's  glooms 
You,  unconquered,  sport  alone: 

Though  the  air  is  bleak  and  cold 

You  are  happy,  marigold. 

Ah !  when  gay  the  morn  and  eve 
Sunshine  was  your  only  store; 

Now,  although  the  breezes  grieve, 
Cheer  they  find  about  the  door 

Where  you,  beaming  in  the  cold, 

Nestle  happy,  marigold. 

[40] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


So  perhaps,  one's  duties  done 
In  the  noon  of  busy  life, 

Give  their  meed  as  seasons  run 
Into  chiller  days  of  strife; 

Burst  in  cheer  as  hearts  grow  cold, 

As  you,  happy  marigold. 


[41] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

AT  CLOSE   OF  DAY 

(In  the  City} 

TOIL-FREE    the    workers    haste    on 
weary  feet, 
And  all  is  motion 
As  level  sunlight  trails  along  the  street. 

Life's  restless  ocean 

Frets  its  tired  surges  as  the  sixth  hour  peals, 
Then  over  all  the  twilight  steals, 
The  twilight  steals ! 

The  rush  from  out  the  busy  marts  is  done; 

Ebb  tide,  swift  flowing; 
The  windowed  cliffs  reflect  the  ruddy  sun; 

Sky,  jewelled,  glowing 
The  ragged  line  of  distant  roof  conceals, 
Then  over  all  the  twilight  steals, 
The  twilight  steals ! 

Gloom,  ashen,  follows  on  the  dying  fire, 
All  light  is  failing; 

142] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Horizon  girt,  the  towers  of  cloudy  Tyre 

Are  zenith  scaling. 

Night's  signet  the  Orient  region  feels, 
Then  over  all  the  twilight  steals, 
The  twilight  steals! 


[43] 


THE  REPLY  OF  GIGADIBS 


THE  REPLY  OF   GIGADIBS 

(A  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE) 

(Being  the  Reverse  to  the  Obverse  of  Brown 
ing's  "Bishop  Blougram's  Apology"} 

AD  so  it  fell  that  Blougram  eased  his 
mind 
To  Gigadibs,  the  literary  man, 
And,   though   the   night   had    waned    and 

gibbous  moon 

Did  peek  and  peer  the  banquet  chamber  in, 
Yet  still  the  talk  went  on ;  for  Gigadibs 
Who  sat  there  silent,  eye  intent  on  cloth, 
Arranging  olive  stones  in  rhythmic  piles, 
Had  otherwise  been  utilizing  mind, 
And  seeming  perfect  type  of  listener 
Yet  kept  his  head  as  Bishop  ambled  on 
So  nimbly  in  his  vain-blown  argument. 
Then  came  the  smile  contemptuous  and  it 

drew 

The  corners  of  the  mouth  and  held  the  lips 
Enchained,  until  the  torrent  of  conceit 
Had  run  its  rushing  course;  and,  satisfied 


[47] 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 

With  all  the  world,  with  self  the  most  of  all 
The  Bishop  ceased,  and,  patronizingly, 
To  Gigadibs,  as  patron  in  the  past 
Was  wont  to  nod  to  poet  at  his  gate 
Whose  very  presence  there  insured  the  fame 
Of  that  same  gilded  worldling,  Lethe-loved, 
He  nodded.     Then  with  sweep  of  hand  the 

pile 

Of  olive  stones  was  swept  from  snowy  board 
And  Gigadibs  aroused  thus  made  reply. 


WELL,  Blougram,  be  it  so;    yet  you 
confess 

In  vino  veritas,  your  rule  in  life. 
Nor  fear,  that  is  the  gist,  though  I  proclaim 
And  spread  your  baseness  from  the  very 

roof, 

And  say  in  sooth,  this  Blougram  is  a  fool 
A  canting,  lying — eh,  what  not  a  fool? 
You   choke   at   that?      You're   much   too 

clever,  eh? 

Would  feel  the  bald  insinuation  less 
Should  you  be  damned  by  somewhat  graver 

charge? 


[48] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


So  then  let's  at  it,  where  I  stopped  the  flow, 
That  wondrous  flow  of  eloquence,  your  gift, 
By  which  you  'witch  us  all,  make  black 

look  white 

By  turning  tropes  and  false  analogies. 
You,  in  the  converse  touching  on  my  work 
And  your  conception  of  theology, 
Did  show,  clean  cut,  a  very  hypocrite. 
Hold  now!     The  word  is  ugly,  I  admit, 
But  robbed  of  fine  distinctions  there  you 

stand, 

As  painted  by  yourself  in  coarse,  black  line, 
Arch  hypocrite  and  what  an  adept  too! 
Enhoused  in  church  you  use  it  for  your 

ease; 

(Let  sacrifices  fall  on  other  souls 
For  why  do  penance  where  so  many  kneel?) 
And  if  your  dogmas  are  but  half  the  truth, 
Secure  of  earth,  you're  sure  of  heaven  too; 
For  lo,  so  famed  a  prelate's  not  o'erlooked 
When  faithful  lift  their  orisons  on  high 
And  dead  or  living  you  will  get  your  due; 
At  most  your  tomb  may  make  an  altar  rail. 
Position  and  preferments,  these  you  love; 
The  flesh  pots  of  an  Egypt,  greener  far, 


[49] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

More  fruitful  too  than  ever  Moses  knew, 
And  more  unfailing,  since  the  rich  supplies 
Are    endless    where     the     zealot    instinct 

rules. 

Ah,  flesh  with  you  is  mighty,  spirit  weak. 
But  why  should  flesh,  since  all  too  soon  the 

goal, 
Not   have  its   own   full   swing,    its    little 

day, 

And  take  its  chances  in  the  aftermath? 
And  what  the  aftermath,  do  any  know? 
And  what  and  where  the  bourne  whence 

none  return, 
Not   e'en   the  Schoolmen  solved,  and    so, 

to-day, 

The  only  creed  that  claims  authority, 
That  is,  through  fact  not  Apostolic  faith, 
And  fetches  witnesses  from  t'other  shore 
Is  Spiritism;  but  the  Heaven  it  shows 
Through  medium  hid  in  darkened  cabinet 
And    evidence    of    the    too,    too     certain 

shapes, 
That  throng  in  sleezy  tulle  or  mull  well 

worn 
Or  other  soft  material  purchased  clean 


[50] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


But  now  as  soiled  as  seem  the  astral  shapes, 
Is  tawdry,  crass  and  crude  and  worse  than 

earth. 

If  Hades  show  no  better  we  are  curst. 
Some  such  complacent  view  has  filled  your 

soul, 

And,  fatuous,  you  feel  impregnable 
And,  lording  over  all,  so  neatly  wool 
The  eyes  of  those  who  form  the  plastic  mob 
That    plaudits    greet    your    every    step. 

Secure? 
Yet  there's  a  text, — You  have  it  well  in 

mind, 
Since  'twas  the  best  of  last  year's  Lenten 

course, 

In  Proverbs,  chapter  ten  and  six,  quite  brief, 
"Superba  et  praecedit,"  thus  it  runs, 
"  Contritionem !  ante  ruinam" 
Of  course  then  "  exalt atur  spiritus"* 
As  far  as  rusty  Latin  memory  goes. 
This  Englished  in  our  current  phrase  would 
be, 


*  "Pride  goeth  before  destruction,  and  an  haughty  spirit 
before  a  fall." — Proverbs  xvi.  18. 


[51] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Pride  goeth  but  before  a  certain  fall, 
And  haughtiness  treads  but  the  road  to  ruin. 
In  golden  letters  it  should  be  displayed, 
Vermilioned  capitals  in  missal  style, 
Above  your  seat  and  for  your  eyes  alone. 


BUT,  let  us  to  the  theme  we  started  on. 
You  brought  me  here  to  state  your 

naked  thought. 
The  mood's  contagious,  frankness  suits  me 

well. 

For  you  declass  my  comrades  and  myself 
And  damn  the  whole  profession  in  a  name. 
You  say  in  fine,  that  Gigadibs,  that's  I, 
Is  in  your  estimation  but  a  worm. 
And  yet  a  worm  has  value.     Darwin  proved 
Its  uses  in  a  patient  monograph 
And  proved  in  other  work,  his  monument, 
A  state  of  things  that  needs  must  give  you 

pain; 

Since  not  the  best  but  fittest  do  survive. 
And  in  an  age  of  sham  and  stucco  faith 
When  lip  belief,  not  life,  receives  applause 
'Tis  such  as  you  do  grace  the  topmost  seats 


152] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


That  rest  on  rotten  piles,  too  soon  to  fall. 
But  in  an  age  whose  sun  but  lately  rose 
In  dim  horizon  murk,  yet  clear  the  burst 
When  zenith  splendor  shall  irradiate, 
You'll    play    th'    ignoble    part    your    soul 

demands. 

You  look  on  me  as  some  zoologist 
Regards  the  organs  of  abortive  type, 
Concedes  the  curious  functions  but  denies 
The  general  value  of  specific  form. 
And  so  it  comes  to  this,  that  you  advise 
The  steerage,  and  a  miner's  traveling  kit. 
And  yet,  you  claim  discernment  is  your 

forte 

And,  just,  your  value  of  modernity. 
You're  pampered,  and  your  metal  rings  not 

true. 

Have  you  not  learned  from  friendly  oculist 
That  e'en  the  perfect  eye  has  blinded  spot? 
So  in  your  mind,  most  perfect  of  its  kind 
(A    trained    machine    the    which    I    must 

admire) 

One  deadened  spot  exists,  reaction  fails, 
Which  you  have  turned,  I  judge  but  by 

results, 


[53] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Upon  the  press  yet  fail  to  see  its  worth! 
Just  as  the  haughty  lords  of  other  days 
Saw  nothing  in  the  magnet  but  a  toy, 
Till  commerce  hung  upon  its  feeble  power 
And  continents  were  at  the  needle's  point. 
But  granted  that,  what  else?     It  held  up 

nails, 

Or,  big  enough,  a  weighty  mass  of  iron. 
But  in  the  blackened  edge  a  mighty  force 
Lay  hid,  now  quickened  into  dynamo. 
So  type  in  hand  is  scarcely  more  than  lead, 
And  e'en  one  printed  page  is  innocent; 
But  whirl  in  form  in  fast  revolving  mass, 
E'en  as  the  armature  is  swiftly  sent, 
And  then  the  potent  energy  appears 
And  takes  its  place  as  wonder  of  the  world. 
And  yet  this  force,  and  here  I  state  my  case, 
Appears  distorted  in  your  complex  brain. 
Your  aura  but  obscures  the  clearer  view, 
Just  as  the  photosphere,  though  in  itself 
A  glowing  mass,   yet  lines   the  spectrum 

black. 

'Tis  medievalism  clouds  your  intellect. 
You  dream  of  that  dark  time,  and  think  it 

now, 


[54] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


When  bishops  fleeced  the  barons;    popes, 

the  kings, 

And  printers'  devils  had  not  yet  appeared. 
For  others,  exorcism  stood  at  hand. 
('Tis  practiced  even  now  upon  the  sly) 
So  therefore  from  your  lofty  state  to-day 
The  daily  journal  seems  a  trifle  small 
And  he  who's  part  of  it  the  merest  speck. 
So  some  have  thought  before  and  come  to 

grief 
Whose  mien  was  haughtier  far  than  Blou- 

gram's  port. 


WELL,  is  the  press  so  weak?     Come, 
test  its  strength, 

And  find  how  Blougram  overrates  himself. 
You've  set  it  forth, — if  I  should  play  you 

false, 
Write  down  the  frank  confession  as  you 

spoke 
And  print  it  word  for  word,  none  would 

believe; 
Not   e'en   your   enemy.     And    such   your 

boast ! 


[55] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Ha!    ha!    why  this  would  make  a  dullard 

smile, 

And  e'en  the  street  boy  could  enlighten  you. 
Pray  where  has  been  your  hidden  diocese? 
And   where   encloistered    have   you   spent 

your  days? 
Such  might  have  been  the  case,  perhaps, 

you  know, 

These  many,  many  years  ago,  when,  true, 
The  week-old  news  and  maiden  verses  filled 
The  narrow  columns  and  the  type  and  ink 
Were  on  a  par  with  what  they  badly  blurred. 
The  present's  not  the  past,  we've  changed 

all  that; 

In  vanguard  of  this  age's  storm  and  stress 
The  very  head  and  front  of  its  advance, 
The  modern  journal  moves  upon  its  way. 
A  Juggernaut,  perhaps,  some  dub  it  so, 
But  I  amend,  and  make  it  Car  of  Light, 
Beneath  whose  wheels  the  error  and  the 

fraud, 
Corruption  high  and  low,  and  crime  and 

vice 

Are  crushed,  and  all  the  hydra  heads 
That  spawning  ignorance  puts  freely  forth. 


[56] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Proved  in  the  proving,  tribune  of  the  few 
And  voice  of  many,  think  you  it  is  weak? 
That  all  who  know  its  value  feel  distrust? 
The  wish  in  you  befathers  erring  thought. 
Not  disbelief,  but  trust  has  gained  the  day. 
Too  many  rogues  have  here  been  brought 

to  book, 
Too   many   dragged  from   state   they   did 

abuse. 

All  needs  be  done  is  set  the  facts  in  line 
And  paint  the  swindler  simply  as  he  is. 
Where  accuracy  has  slain  its  tens  on  tens 
And  hundreds  fall  by  deadly  parallel, 
To  be  misquoted  is  to  keep  your  fame 
And  what  you  are  not  often  wins  the  day, 
While  what  you  are,  if  printed,  crushing 

ruin. 

Lo,  confidence  has  brought  its  train  of  ills, 
And  e'en  the  false  finds  many  credulous. 
What,   disbelieve?      Oh,   no;    belief's   the 

word. 

(I'm  sure  your  orthodoxy  moves  at  that) 
And  yet  you,  in  your  pride,  despise  all  this 
And  call  it  weakling  force.     It  has  its  lacks; 
Its  brooding  Buddhas  wear  no  striking  robe 


157] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Nor  sweep  in  august  state  up  chancel  aisle, 

And  title's  lost  in  anonymity, 

And  reputation  hides  itself  in  deeds. 

Here  is  an  altruism  yet  unmatched 

By  you  or  yours,  although  the  daily  boast 

Of  abnegation  is  your  stock  in  trade. 

For  every  martyr  e'en  has  fame  to  spare, 

And  ostentation  is  the  very  life 

Of  Church,  you  know,  as  well  as  world  at 

large. 

Lo,  craze  of  name  is  epidemic  now 
And  heads  are  turned  to  notoriety. 
E'en  pilloried  in  crime  has  its  rewards 
For  those  to  whom  to  live  and  be  unseen 
Is  worse  than  death.    This  other  worldliness 
Of  those  who  do  their  duty,  but  must  stand 
As  X,  unknown,  in  algebraic  sum 
In  forming  the  equation  of  success, 
Is  truest  sacrifice  and  self  denial. 
And  yet  you  talk  as  if  'twas  cheap  and  mean 
And  miss  the  whole  while  quibbling  over 

part. 

Ignore  its  signal  worth  and  do  forget 
That  tyrants,  those  enthroned,  or  those  the 

mass 


158] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Have  set  on  high  as  demagogic  boss 
Do  tremble  as  they  hear  the  mighty  throb. 
Lo,  roar  of  press  has  silenced  cannonade, 
And  "latest  news"  outwits  the  diplomats. 
Yea,  smell  of  ink  has  made  autocracy 
Grow  faint  where  bombs  were  ineffectual. 
There's  more  of  freedom,  that  they  know 

full  well, 
Where  lives  the  press  untrammeled  than  all 

laws 

Or  special  grants  provide,  where  right  divine 
Oft  rules  as  if  from  nether  world  had  come 
Its  charter,  title,  to  its  rule  of  wrong. 
E'en  there  the  press  enmartyred  grows  apace 
And  all  the  censors  fail  to  blank  it  out. 
It  knows  no  bounds  on  land  or  heaving  main 
To  check  the  progress  of  its  enterprise, 
And,   more  than  argus-eyed  and  million- 

tongued, 
Proclaims  the  doings  of  the  rough-rimmed 

world. 

And  though  you  boast  of  heaped  up  treasury 
It  soon  would  drain  if  one  day's  cost  you 

paid. 
For  penny  a  line  has  long  been  out  of  date, 


[59] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

And  single  words  have  cost  far  more,  in  fact, 
Than  you  have  paid  for  ostensorium, 
Although  a  ruby  glow  amid  the  gold. 
And  e'en  your  fattest  check,  or  signet  ring, 
Though  at  its  beck  a  treasury  unlocks, 
Would  hardly  pay  the  telegraphic  bills. 


BUT,  come,  suppose  I  take  your  gauntlet 
up 
And  print  your  chatter,  Blougram,  word  for 

word. 
Well  then  'tis  done.     Th'  edition's  on  the 

street; 

Some  hundred  thousand  copies  at  the  least. 
You  preach  to  seven  hundred,  do  you  not? 
Ah,  yes,  but  doubled  on  a  gala  day. 
And  then  your  printed  slip  in  diocese, 
If  all  goes  well,  still  spreads  you  further  on, 
But  at  the  most  ten  thousand  is  your  all, 
(You  see  I  even  give  the  "devil"  his  due) 
To  whom  you  stand  as  paragon  indeed. 
But  hundred  times  that  number  read  the 

news, 
And  hundred-fold  repeat  it  everywhere. 


[60] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


And  when  'tis  sent  the  country  o'er,  ex 
changed 
And   re-exchanged,   why   thousand-fold   it 

flies, 

Till  millions  read  and  other  millions  tell. 
E'en    backwoods    towns,    and    cross-roads 

villages 

Affect  the  news  of  the  metropolis. 
And  fame  means  fame  when  so  'tis  spread 

abroad; 
When  what  is  done  in  Zealand's  praised  in 

Maine, 

And  Tangier  chieftain  dies  in  bulging  print 
An  inch  in  size  in  some  Dakotan  town. 
Since  this  is  true  the  corollary  stings; 
Disgrace  is  deep,  remorse  a  scorpion's  nest, 
And  no  retreat  is  found  for  broken  life. 
For  if  there  be  some  hidden  nook,  mayhap, 
Where    telegraph's    unknown     and     inter 
course 

In  native  tongue  is  yet  by  word  of  mouth, 
In  some  far  distant  island  settlement, 
Your  ship  would  hardly  reach  the  port 
Ere  from  the  hold  the  month-old  journals 
rise 


[61] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

(For  Nemesis  assumes  this  modern  form) 

And  tell  the  story  to  antipodes. 

Perchance  your  portrait  too  would  lead  the 
page, 

And  thus  a  wretched  wanderer,  you'd  find, 

In  partibus,  yes,  infidelium 

The  dark  suspicion  where  you  sought  sur 
cease. 

But  let  us  start  th'  apology  on  its  way: 

First  head-lines  set  you  out  in  bold-faced 
type. 

These  point  the  way  to  richness  yet  to  come; 

You'll  not  despise  them  when  the  ordeal's 
o'er 

And  Blougram,  humbled,  cries  "Ha'  mercy 
all" 

For  thus  pinked  out  I  see  the  expose 

Somewhat  as  follows : 

BLOUGRAM  TELLS  IT  ALL. 

The  Bishop's  Method  Clear— He  Dupes  His 
Flock — His  Views  as  Seen  o'er  Cordials 
and  the  Cheese — Pure  Piety  Discounted 
— Other  Ways  Succeed — Would  Rather 
Wine  and  Dine  than  Save  a  Soul,  If  it 


[62] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Would  Interfere  with  Flow  of  Wit— The 
Reason  Why  He  Lingers  in  the  Pale — 
The  Pickings  Fatter  There  and  Kine 
Less  Lean. 

I  hear  the  boys  out  shrieking  on  the  streets. 
Your  fame  is  bruited  on  the  every  breeze, 
"Here  now  the  morning  papers!!      Blou- 

gram  talks!!! 
"The  great  sensation!!!!     Here  you  are,  a 

cent." 
And  then  the  comment.     Those  who  knew 

you  best. 
"We  knew  he  was  a  rogue" — "He  flew  too 

high"- 

"  At  least  he  told  the  truth  for  once  in  life  " — 
"Old  Blougram  overreached  himself  that's 

sure"- 
"The  Church  is  blessed,  he  fooled  it  long 

enough  "- 

"These     after    dinner    talkers    kill    them 
selves — 

Their  very  glibness  cuts  the  edge  of  sense  "- 
"Not  what  he  said,  his  cry?      Oh  that's 

played  out, 


[63] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

"So  X,  the  boodler,  claimed."     And  so  the 

talk 

Would  run  in  widening  circle,  and,  the  world 
At  large,  to  whom  you'd  be  but  shadowy 

name, 

Yet  thick  enough,  like  string  in  potash  jar 
To  which  the  crystals  all  attach  themselves, 
About  your  simulacrum  would  collect 
A  hundred  anecdotes  and  wondrous  tales. 
Believe  the  publication?     Why  of  course! 
They'd  set  it  down  for  more  than  gospel 

truth. 

And  I'm  convinced,  for  facts  run  all  one  way, 
Although  a  pure  specific  is  a  dream 
Of  science,  and  not  likely  in  our  time 
(Save  in  the  advertisements,  paid  in  full) 
The  best  specific  for  the  cure  of  pride, 
Though  drastic,  is  a  wholesome  dose  of  print . 
Oh,  I  have  seen  most  stubborn  cases  yield! 
And  once  will  do,  no  failure  mars  the  plan, 
Though  testimonials  rarely  are  produced. 
No  fault  in  the  medicament,  howe'er; 
Oh  no,  'tis  merely  human  modesty 
And  reticence,  twin  virtues  as  you  know, 
By  hearsay,  not  experience  of  your  own. 


164) 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


And,  if  I  should  administer  the  dose, 
Although  unwilling  you'd  admit  the  truth, 
When,  sans  complacency,  you'd  wish  your 

words 
Were   anywhere   but   down   in   black   and 

white. 

Then  you,  not  I,  would  take  the  friendly  pick 
And  seek  the  pier,  the  ship  and  newer  land. 


WHAT  was  I  saying?     Oh;  of  course,  in 
jest! 

There's  naught  so  sacred  as  a  confidence. 
We  all  are  weak  at  times,  the  best  of  us, 
And  wear  our  hearts   out  freely  on  our 

sleeves, 
Exhibit  inmost  thoughts,  which  proves,  I 

think, 

How  much  the  world  is  kind  as  well  as  kin. 
Your  frankness  really  honors  you.     These 

walls 

Alone  shall  know  our  converse  here  to-night. 
The  secret's  sooner  told  by  them  than  me. 
Though  hearing  much  as  your  confessional, 
The  daily  journal  prints  but  half  it  knows, 

5  [65] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAB 

And  holds  the  other  half  as  guarantee 
Of  good  behavior.     Ah,  you're  not  alone 
In  this  predicament.     The  company 
Is  large  and  goodly;  yea,  enjoys  life  too; — 
As  much  as  those  who  till  a  crater's  edge. 
You  say  you  preach  next  Sunday?     What's 

the  theme? 
On  "Honor?"     Good!    I'll  see  somebody's 

there, 

(It's  well  to  throw  a  sop  to  Cerberus) 
Who'll  give  your  rich  discourse  its  fullest 

meed. 
What  almost  break  of  day?    I  must  be  off! 


[66] 


SONGS  AND  SONNETS 


TO  AN  AMERICAN  BEAUTY 

E^ELY  in  bud.     Ah,  who  beholding 
The   beauty   of    its   petal   clasped 
form 

Can  marvel  that,  unfolding, 
The  full  blown  flower  takes  all  the  world 

by  storm. 

Fragrance,  whose  balm  a  New-World  sweet 
ness 
Exhales  upon  the  brisk,  pulse-quickening 

air, 
A  sense  of  rich  completeness 

Its  vigors  with  its  subtler  graces  share. 

Then  hasten,  Rose !  ere  yet  the  morning 

Of  thy  brief  glory  passeth  all  too  soon, 
Full  fit  for  her  adorning 

Who  at  the  threshold  faces  life's    high 

noon. 
Queenly  in  poise,  no  Old- World  clamor 

Of  precedence,  nor  accidents  of  birth, 
Nor  title's  empty  glamor 

Her  charms  enhance — Go,  Rose,  and  share 
her  worth ! 


[69] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


FOR  ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY 

UNTOUCHED,  I  laughed  at  love  at 
sudden  sight, 
Deeming  it  figment  of  a  puppet  art, 
Machine-made   god   to   fit   machine-made 

part, 

And  dulled  to  finer  things,  denied  the  light; 
But  since  thy  face  has  dawned  upon  my 

night, 

Radiant,  I  seize  upon  the  poignant  dart, 
Ecstatic,  press  it  deeper  in  my  heart; 
Welcome  its  pain,  yield  gladly  to  its  might! 
Like  Paul  of  Tarsus,  now  no  longer  blind, 
No  longer  deaf  to  voices  from  on  high, 
That  thrill  the  ear  as  thrush  at  eventide, 
A  quickened  faith  and  hope  in  thee  I  find, 
A  newer  creed  to  cry  exultingly, 
Thy  self  my  all,  my  gospel  glorified! 


[70] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


FOR  THE  SPRINGTIME 

OH,  would  thou  wert  a  violet, 
And  I  the  clasping  leaf 
Heart-folded,  chalicing  thy  life, 
Thy  beauty  all  my  fief! — 
A  vain  conceit?    Mayhap!    And  yet 
I  would  thou  wert  a  violet 
And  I — the  leaf. 

Oh,  would  thou  wert  a  violet, 

And  I  the  sunny  nook 
Pervaded  by  thy  perfumed  grace, 

Thy  love  an  open  book. 
An  idle  thought?     Mayhap!     And  yet 
I  would  thou  wert  a  violet 

And  I — the  nook. 

Oh,  would  thou  wert  a  violet, 

And  I  the  lingering  breeze 
That  stooped  to  kiss  thy  loveliness 

Under  the  burgeoning  trees. 
A  spring-tide  dream?     Mayhap!     And  yet 
I  would  thou  wert  a  violet 

And  I — the  breeze. 


[71 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


COMMUNION 

WHEN  every  look  is  tell-tale  with 
desire, 
What  if  bold  words  be  wanting? 

Speech  is  naught, 
And  the  long  silence  with  love's  meaning 

fraught 
Quickens  the  cheek  and  eye  with  deeper 

fire; 

Whilst  subtler  essences  of  self  conspire 
To  stir  the  depths,  outrun  the  very  thought, 
As  each  to  each,  through  wizardry  unsought, 
Surely  responds  as  strings  in  double  lyre. 
And  yet  this  mystery,  too  oft,  in  strife 
Is  lost;  and  we,  in  crush  of  thing  intense 
O'erwhelmed — the  very  way  by  flash  con 
cealed — 

See  not,  full-blinded  by  the  glare  of  life, 
That  in  the  twilight  of  the  duller  sense 
Lo!  soul  to  soul,  in  beauty  stands  revealed. 


[72] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


EVENSONG 

SOFTLY,  at  eve,  let  thy  swift  fingers 
sweeping 
O'er  the  dim  keys,  from  whence  the 

music  wells, 
Give  me  delight,  a  joy  akin  to  weeping, 

As  the  low  plaint  its  tonal  anguish  tells 
Of  heart-strings  touched,  of  song  too  dear 

for  singing 

Heard  as  the  candles  gleam,  the  dusk  thee 
closer  bringing, 
Softly,  at  eve! 

Softly  at  eve,  should  we  be  haply  straying, 
'Mid  memoried  walks  where  cypress  shad 
ows  fall, 
Hearing  the  splash  of  fountains  idly  playing, 

May  we  that  golden  time  of  old  recall, 
And  both  enraptured,  every  moment  sating, 
List  to  the  Thrush's  note  in  fervid,  spring 
time  mating, 

Softly,  at  eve! 


[73] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Softly,  at  eve,  when  words  seem  mere  in 
trusion, 
May  my  hand-clasp  suffice  for  murmured 

vow, 

And  eye  meet  eye,  with  cheek  in  rich  suffu 
sion, 

As,  side  by  side,  at  hidden  shrine  we  bow; 
Love,  let  me  say,  'twill  be  no  crass  trans 
gression 

To  thee,  as  antiphon,  oh  then,  my  last  con 
fession, 

Softly,  at  eve! 


[74] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


UNAWARES 

A  I,  unawares,  we  angels  entertain: 
In    humble    flesh    they  clothe  the 
spark  divine, 

And,  blind,  we  heed  in  naught  the  simple  sign 
That   tells   the   birthright;    scarce   indeed 

refrain 
From  harsh  unwelcome  of  the  rack  and 

chain. 

For  so  the  world  distorts  us  to  its  will 
That,    unattuned,   we   miss   the   wondrous 

thrill 
And  flout  the  weak,  the  strong's  coarse  smile 

to  gain. 

And  then  too  late,  the  past  beyond  recall 
When  time's  revenges  come  with  turning 

sand, 
The  sure  reproach,  the  wormwood,  bitter 

gall! 
And  yet,  what  heart  reward  to  those  who 

gave 
The  cup,  the  crust,  the  cloak,  the  ready 

hand 
And  knew,  in  giving,  joy  that  seraphs  crave! 


[75] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

AT  THE   RECITAL 

(Stanzas  with  a  Foreign  Refrain) 

THAT  note !  it  thrills  me  through  and 
through ! 
(Meine  Ruh'  ist   hin — Du   bist    die 

Ruh'!) 

Once  more  the  poignant  strain  begin! 
Piercing  my  breast — Meine  Ruh'  ist  hin — 
And  then,  as  if  in  echoing  call, 
(Meine  Ruh'  ist  hin — Du  bist  die  Ruh' !) 
Let  consolation  softly  fall 
As  benison  while  hopes  renew — 
Du  bist  die  Ruh'! 

So  swings  life's  pendulum,  e'er  true — • 
(Meine  Ruh'  ist  hin — Du  bist  die  Ruh' !) 
If  self  be  lost,  we  haply  win, 
Yet  victor,  cry.     "Meine  Ruh'  ist  hin!" 
Oh,  sick  at  heart,  perplexed,  full  blind, 
(Meine  Ruh'  ist  hin — Du  bist  die  Ruh' !) 
Restless,  what  peace  at  last  to  find, 
What  calm  of  heights  amid  the  blue — 
Du  bist  die  Ruh'! 

[76] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Welcome  distress,  for  that  I  sue! 
(Meine  Ruh'  1st  bin — Du  bist  die  Ruh' !) 
Compassion!     Ah,  to  love  akin, 
Turns  all  to  joy — Meine  Ruh'  ist  hin — 
Oh,  then,  as  major  harmonies  roll, 
(Meine  Ruh'  ist  hin— Du  bist  die  Ruh' !) 
Let  the  sweet  cadence  'whelm  the  soul 
Fragrant  with  memories  all  too  few, — 
Du  bist  die  Ruh'! 


[77 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


FASCINATION 

WHAT  is  this  charm  that  thy  least 
actions  throw 
O'er     all     the     simplest     things? 

What  is  this  grace 

Shown  in  the  very  touch,  the  very  pace? 
Others  more  beauty  have  possessed  I  know, 
The  Cyprian  crew  perpetually  on  show 
All  sleek  and  golden  in  the  market  place; 
And  dim,  as  dusty  tomes  the  records  trace, 
The  pedant  virtues  of  Hypatias  glow! 
But  these  have  naught  in  common,  nor  are 

part 

Of  thee,  since  imaged  thou,  thy  sex  above, 
And  fixed  forever  in  my  quickened  heart 
As  one  whose  ways  reveal  that  law  of  love 
That  shares,  as  shrined  Madonna,  calm  and 

mild, 
Th'  eternal  mother  with  the  soul  of  child. 


[78] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


TOO  LATE 

(Presto  Agitato — ben  Marcato) 

HURRY  on!     Hurry  on! 
Precious  must  be  the  load, 
Hurry  on!     Hurry  on! 
Horse  a-blood  from  the  goad, 
Fierce  the  rush  down  the  road. 
Hurry  on!     Hurry  on! 

Loud,  loud,  the  herald  cries, 
Open  gate!    Open  gate! 
Life  yields  to  hate's  reprise, 
Too  late — the  arrow  flies. 
Too  late!    Too  late! 

Click  it  on!     Click  it  on! 

Lightning-swift  o'er  the  sea. 
Click  it  on!     Click  it  on! 

Words  of  heart  agony. 

"Love,  love,  come  back  to  me." 
Click  it  on!     Click  it  on! 

"Come,  could  you  not  divine?" 

[79] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Break  the  news !     Break  the  news ! 
"I  am  entirely  thine." 
Too  late — no  answering  sign. 
Too  late!     Too  late! 

Oh,  the  knell !     Oh,  the  knell ! 

Too  late  we  lay  our  plan. 
Oh,  the  knell !     Oh,  the  knell ! 

Cunning,  with  wit  of  man, 

But  small  the  arc  we  scan, 
Oh,  the  knell !     Oh,  the  knell ! 

Fate  runs  the  circle  'round, 
Toll  the  bell!     Toll  the  bell! 

Low  lies  the  simple  mound. 

Too  late — Heart-rending  wound! 
Too  late!    Too  late! 


[80] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


AD  UNAM 

I   WOULD,  but  dare  not  touch  you  lest 
you  know 
The  wild  delirium  a-rage  within. 
And  yet — because  of  fear  of  earth-born  sin — 
Why  should  I  halt  me;  why  this  bliss  forego? 
How  can  the  impassioned  touch  of  love 

defile 

The  very  temple  it  would  consecrate? 
Since  in  heart-alchemy  is  sublimate 
All  baser  mood;  until  the  low,  the  vile, 
Transfused,  transformed,  as  in  refining  fires, 
With  dross  of  self,  become  full  purified 
In  mutual  sacrifice.     Eternal  test 
Of  this,  the  new  communion  which  aspires 
To  super-heights  too  long  undared,  untried, 
As  love  attains  its  solace,  ends  its  quest. 


[81] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAB 

TO  .EOLUS 

(A  SONG  OF  SEASONS) 

(Winter) 

UNDER  bare  poles  the  forest  bends 
beneath  the  hurtling  blast, 
And  the  pine  tree  dreams  of  the  wild 
sea  days  to  come  to  its  tapering 
mast; 
And  the  hemlocks  on  their  rocky  ledge  give 

voice  to  a  winter  song, 
And  the  snow  falls  fast  with  a  stinging  dash 
And  the  birches  creak  and  the  oak-boughs 

clash 

As  the  north  wind  hastens  along,  along, 
As  the  north  wind  hastens  along. 

(Spring) 

Under  the  sun  the  forest  smiles  and  cheer 

is  everywhere, 
And  the  tasseled  alders  shake  in  glee  for 

Spring  is  in  the  air; 

182] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


And  the  gentle  poplars   on  the  slope  are 

a-twitter  with  joyous  song, 
Whilst  blood-root  blooms  replace  the  snows, 
And  arbutus  buds  forestall  the  rose 
As  the  south  wind  hastens  along,  along, 
As  the  south  wind  hastens  along. 

(Summer) 

Under  a  dome  of  lustrous  blue  the  peace 

of  the  earth  is  thine, 
As  the  cedarn  sentries  watch  the  fields  in  a 

steady,  stately  line; 
And  the  orchard  thrush  and  the  oriole  vie 

together  in  melting  song, 
And  the  wild  grape  scents  the  leafy  lane, 
And  the  mimic  waves  sweep  the  growing 

grain 

As  the  west  wind  hastens  along,  along, 
As  the  west  wind  hastens  along. 

(Autumn) 

Under  the  veil  of  dragging  clouds  the  hilly 
crest  is  lost; 


183] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

In  the  mad,  mad  rush  of  the  gale  at  sea  the 

ships  are  tempest  tost; 
And  the  brook  bank-full  goes  rushing  by 

as  it  sings  its  noisy  song, 
And  the  thirsty  fields  forget  their  drought, 
And  the  rain-sick  moon  comes  peeping  out 
As  the  east  wind  hastens  along,  along, 
As  the  east  wind  hastens  along. 


[84] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


UNIDENTIFIED 

(Suggested  by  the    Unknown  Graves  on  the 
Ocean  Drive  at  Newport) 

A  rest,  asleep,  where  breaks  the  sob 
bing  sea, 
Whose  waves  on  hollow  reefs  make 

constant  moan, 

As  if  in  plaint  and  prayer  for  these  alone 
Asking  repose  through  endless  monody, 
These  twain  lie  nameless.     Yea,  no  carven 

plea, 
In  grudged  remembrance,  stares  in  massy 

stone 

To  cheat  Time  of  its  rightful  spoil.     Un 
known, 

They,  silent,  speak  but  of  humanity. 
And  as,  midst  merriment  of  ancient  feast, 
The  death-head  warned  the  heedless  of  the 

grave, 

So,  here,  where  painted  beauty  sweeps  in 
pride, 


[85] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

These  mounds  forecast,  in  face  of  wealth 

unleashed, 
The  fate  of  these — nor  gems  nor  gold  can 

save — 
Doomed,  all,  to  moulder  "Unidentified!" 


[86] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


IN  AFTER  YEARS 

A  I,  was  it  not  but  yesterday 
We  two,  love,  you  and  I, 
Were  all  in  all?    The  envious  say 
The  years  have  hastened  by; 
But  not  so,  love!    It  cannot  be; 

I  know  no  flight  of  time 
Whose  favors  are  inconstancy 
And  life's  dull  pantomime. 
All  is  unchanged.     Come,  give  me  joy, 

Though  morning  breaks  in  gray; 
Can  one  drear  night  our  love  destroy 
That  blossomed — yesterday? 

Ah,  was  it  not  but  yesterday? 

In  memory's  magic  glass 
The  deeds  of  years  in  brave  array 

In  august  pageant  pass. 
A  Circe  web  is  woven  wide, 

As  mind's  fast  shuttles  fly, 
And  dreamland  actions  swiftly  glide 

Just  in  the  blink  of  eye. 
Success,  defeats,  and  all  their  train 

Of  joys  and  woes — Nay!     Nay! 

[87] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

The  fleeting  vision  gives  no  pain, 
When  'twas  but  yesterday. 

Forgot  is  time,  forgot  is  age; 

A  plague  on  memory! 
Truth  oft  is  hidden  in  its  page, 

A  palimpsest  decree. 
For  was  it  not  but  yesterday 

We  two,  together,  here? 
Love  is  not  dead,  and  life  is  gay,— 

We  weep  beside  no  bier. 
Poor,  sordid  souls  reproach  the  hour 

That  wings  its  rapid  way; 
Dear  Heart,  they  know  not  love's  sweet 
power, — 

It  was  but  yesterday. 


[88] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


AT    HARVARD— THE     "YARD"     IN 
SUMMER 

(Majoresque  Cadunt  "Altis  ab  Ulmis" 
Umbrae) 

THE  longer  shadows  stretch  across  the 
grass, 
Elm-woven  traceries  across  the  wall, 
The  bustling,  eager  world  is  near,  at  call. 
And  yet — but  o'er  this  simple  threshold  pass 
And  all  is  changed.     Forgot  the  crude  and 

crass 
Appeals;    the  Present  with  its  mart  and 

stall. 
Deserted,  say  you?     Yet  how  thronged  the 

mall 

As  reverie  fares  free  where  none  harass ! 
For  lo !  before  these  fronts,  severe  in  line, 
Before  this  foot-worn  reach  of  spreading 

yard, 

A  deeper  touch  than  nature  gives  is  thine, 
A  deeper  thrill  than  beauty  of  the  glen 
Imparts,  or  glory  of  the  sea,  unmarred; 
A  poignant  sense  of  comradeship,  of  men. 


189] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


FOR  THE  WINTER  TIME 

THE  wood's  thin  spires  cut  the  western 
sky, 
Red,  dull-red  glows  the  day-done 

fire; 

And  the  hemlock  branches  swish  and  sigh 
As  the  starry  herds  fill  the  night's  vast 

byre, 
And  the  winds,  near-lulled,  touch  the  reeds 

and  die 
Like  the  last  fond  note  on  a  trembling 

lyre — 
The  last  fond  note  on  a  trembling  lyre. 

Outside  rules  the  chill;  in  this  nook,  apart, 

All  ember-lit,  let  us  rest,  content; 
Ah,  love,  since  I  know  how  dear  thou  art 
Let  me  press  thee,  sweet,  for  that  sure 

consent. 

And  oh,  that  the  promptings  of  thy  heart 
I  might  seal  with  the  kiss  of  acknowledg 
ment — 
The  long,  long  kiss  of  acknowledgment. 


[90] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE   GREAT 

THE  great  are  gone;  the  world,  its 
grief  expressed, 
Moves  as  before;  the  bustling  marts 

resume, 

Men  turn  to  merriment,  forget  the  gloom, 
And  those  in  whom  authority  is  dressed 
Crowd  to  the  van;   and,  eager,  many  fume 
To  ope  new  ways,  or  quenched  fires  relume, 
And  past  is  lost  in  newer,  present  quest — 
This  is  the  surface  seeming,  but  not  so! 
All,  all  is  changed  down  to  the  deeps  of  life; 
Though  masked  and  hidden,  as  the  years 

goby, 

Lo,  silently  the  subtle  forces  flow, 
And,  working  marvels  in  the  later  strife, 
Proclaim  the  due  to  name  none  may  deny! 


191] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  HALL 
OF  SCIENCE 

GREAT  God  of  nature,  let  these  halls, 
The  hidden  things  of  earth  make 
plain; 

Let  knowledge  trumpet  forth  her  calls, 
And  wisdom  speak,  but  not  in  vain. 

Help  us  to  read  with  humble  mind, 

Thy  larger  scriptures,  day  by  day- 
True  bread  of  life!     O  be  thou  kind, 
If,  erring,  we  should  go  astray. 

For  deep  resounding  unto  deep, 
Declares  the  wonders  of  thy  plan; 

Life  struggling  from  its  crystal  sleep 
Finds  glorious  goal  at  last  in  man. 

The  mysteries  of  the  eternal  laws 
Are  but  the  shadows  of  thy  might. 

God,  ruling  all  in  final  cause, 

Enshrine  the  world  in  love  and  light! 


[92] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


TO  A  ROADSIDE  CEDAR 

)f  •  A  IS  not  for  thee  in  ancient  walks  to 

throw 
Thy     pointed     shadows     o'er     the 

sculptured  stone, 

Where  marbles  fix  some  Niobean  moan 
Of  art;   nor,  gathering  gloom  where  waters 

flow 
Past  groves   Lethean,   aisled    with   mortal 

woe, 
To  lift  thy  cheering  spires.     Thy  lot  is 

strown 
In    newer,    happier    climes    and    lands 

unknown 

To  classic  realms  of  storied  feasts  and  show. 
For  thou,  dear  gnomon  of  the  passing  hour, 
Green  sentinel  of  sunny  lanes  and  fields, 
Whose  sturdy  watch  defies  harsh  win 
ter's  knell, 
Art  guardian  of  the  humblest  homes, 

where  dwell 

The  simple  folk,  the  yeomanry  that  wields 
In  peopled  might  all  that  men  crave  of 
power ! 


193] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


REVELATION 

I  TASTE  the  dragon  blood  of  Spring, 
The  mystery  of  the  woods  is  mine! 
I  know  whereof  the  bluebirds  sing 
And  why  the  South  wind,  whispering, 
Brings  Heaven  to  Earth,  as  hearts  incline 
Responsive  to  the  awakening  sign. — 
I  taste  the  dragon  blood  of  Spring 
The  mystery  of  the  woods  is  mine! 

I  taste  the  dragon  blood  of  youth, 
The  mystery  of  the  heart's  unsealed! 
Desire  in  check,  lest  without  ruth 
It  crush  in  fleshly  grasp  the  truth 
That  love  is  more  than  lust;  revealed 
The  inner  light  so  long  concealed. — 
I  taste  the  dragon  blood  of  youth, 
The  mystery  of  the  heart's  unsealed! 

I  taste  the  dragon  blood  of  life, 
The  mystery  of  the  soul  is  clear! 
Though  with  dispute  the  air  is  rife 
Though  lost  in  moil  of  wordy  strife 


94 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


The  harmony  of  the  eternal  sphere 
Rings  true,  and  God  is  far  and  near. 
I  taste  the  dragon  blood  of  life, 
The  mystery  of  the  soul  is  clear! 


[95] 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 


FRIENDSHIP 

DAMON   is   dead   and  Pythias   with 
the  dust, 
The    harp    of    David  stilled;    and 

yet  the  years 

Still  echo  with  their  names  as  disappears 
All  coarser  fact;    and,  as  pure  wine  from 

must, 

Freed  from  the  setting  of  barbaric  lust 
The  deeper  meaning  of  the  legend  clears! 
And,  golden,  lo,  the  truth  the  more  endears 
Type   of   all  friendships,   love   and   sacred 

trust. 

For  though  the  sun,  no  longer  in  its  flight, 
Gilds  Judah's  hall,  or  Syracusan  gate, 
Levelled  the  pinnacles,  man's  potent  creed, 
That  lifts  the  humblest  to  immortal  height, 
Remains  to  break  the  blow  of  crowding  fate, 
When  self  is  immolate  for  other's  need! 


[96] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


LOVE  AND  DEATH 

WHERE  Love  is  'tis  sacred  spot. 
Bow  the  head  and  reverence! 
Coo  from  cradle,  cry  from  cot, 
Child  at  breast  redeems  the  lot. 
Ah,  to  those  who  know  this  not, 
Joy  is  theirs  in  severance ! 

Where  Death  is  'tis  holy  ground. 

Bow  the  head  and  reverence! 
As  Grief's  litanies  resound, 
Then  Love  breaks  all  earthly  bound, 
Gazes  rapt  through  vast  profound, 

For  it  knows  not  severance. 


197] 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 

AT  THE  STATE  HOUSE 

(Independence  Hall] 

NE'ER  through  these  arches  walked 
the  sceptred  great, 
A-jest   with   Pompadours,   a-blind 

with  pride, 
Whilst  millions  toiled  and,  all-despairing, 

cried 

Against  the  burdens  of  the  despot  State. 
Ah,  no !  these  halls  a  nobler  tale  relate — 
Of  wilds  redeemed,  of  labor  glorified, 
Of  equal  rights  to  humblest  ne'er  denied, 
Of  men  to  liberty  full  consecrate. 
O  walls,  ye  house  a  shrine  of  priceless  worth ! 
O  tower,  thine  outlook  broadens  with  the 

day! 

O  bell,  unsounding,  thou  art  far  from  mute. 
Lo,  Freedom,  here  encradled,  fills  the  earth 
With  richest  blessings ;  lo  its  puissant  sway 
Nor  continents  confine,  nor  seas  dispute. 


[98 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


WHEN  ABSENT 

SWEET  anguish  of  desire  when  thou  art 
near, 
Sweet  pain  when  far  away; 
Yet,  I  were  happy  wert  thou  ever  here; 
So,  prithee,  stay ! 

'Tis  true  I  learn  anew  thy  priceless  worth 

By  contrast  when  alone; 
But,  oh  how  small  indeed  the  joys  of  earth 

When  thou  art  gone! 

As  one,  awake,  soul-sick  for  morning  yearns 

As  night  drags  wearily; 
So,  absent,  all  my  anxious  thought  e'er  turns 

To  hope  of  thee. 

With  thee  beside  I'll  put  to  flight  the  drear 

And  hail  the  newer  day ! 
If  I  risk  all  to  have  thee  ever  near, 

Canst  thou  say  nay? 


[99] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAB 


AFTER  HEARING  DVORAK'S 

E-MINOR   (NEW  WORLD) 

SYMPHONY 

OLIST,  what  ecstasy  as  singers  keep 
The  chant  a-swinging!      Hark,  a 
livelier  tune 
As   pace  turns  faster   under  the   Harvest 

moon 

And,  gourds  a-rattling,  ebon  dancers  leap 
With   laugh   and   lilt.      Such   sounds   this 

music  steep, 
While  plaint  of  flute  and  buzz  of  hoarse 

bassoon 

And  wail  of  oboe  (is  it  the  beldame's  croon?) 
Murmur  a  people's  wrongs  as  viols  weep. 
And  yet,   O  race   despised,   what   victory 

thine! 

The  haughty  master-folk  confess  thy  power; 
Strength  lies  in  weakness,  for  the  whispered 

groan 
Of  anguished  song,  sweet  balm  for  weary 

hour, 

Transfigured,  midst  the  harmonies  divine, 
Becomes  of  art  inspiring  corner-stone. 

1100] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


AWAKENED 

After  a  Lapse  of  Time 

METHOUGHT  I  had  forgotten  all; 
Thine  every  look,  thy  way,  thy 
life, 

O'erwhelmed  beneath  the  ready  pall, 
We  weave  of  things  of  daily  strife; 
The  casual  things  to  which  we  turn 
For  surcease  when  the  past  we  spurn. 

But,  no;  though  seeming  hidden  deep 
Beneath  life's  husks,  its  sophistries, 

As  blooms  brush-hid  during  winter's  sleep 
Revealed  by  stir  of  April's  breeze 

Perfume  the  air;  so  at  thy  name 

Love  reasserts  its  olden  claim. 

And  lo,  I  find  completely  held 
Thine  image,  perfect,  glorified; 

Naught  has  been  lost,  no  day  has  knelled 
Affection's  wane,  nor  hope  denied; 

A  brief  eclipse,  mere  passing  phase, 

As  memory  sets  the  soul  ablaze. 


[101 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

No  longer  therefore  can  the  round 
Of  chilling  duties  satisfy; 

No  longer  fettered,  at  one  bound, 
I  seek  thy  side;  emboldened,  I 

Ask  but  recall  of  thy  decree 

Since,  love,  I  live  alone  for  thee ! 


[102] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


THE  ELECT 

WHOSE  are  these  narrow  homes  of 
low  estate? 
Green   barrows,  swellings   of    the 

field 

Scarce  marked  by  pallid  stones  that  yield 
Their  runes  to  time,  and  so  obliterate 
That  nothing  tells  the  tale  of  small  or  great, 
Or  name,  or  deeds,  in  pompous  line  revealed? 
Mystery  for  shroud  and  all  the  past  con 
cealed 

What  is  the  meaning  of  their  common  fate? 
Lo,    these    sought    Fame    and    were    her 

votaries, 

Her  dear  elect,  who  knew  no  stress  of  pain 
Nor   checked   desire   as   long   as   fluttered 

breath; 

Who  drank  the  wine  of  life  to  very  lees, 
E'en,  impious,  tore  the  temple  veil  in  twain, 
Brake  in  the  shrine  to  find — the  face  of 
death! 


[103] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


UNRECONCILED 

(Molto  Appassionato) 

WHY  should  I  halt  my  grief? 
What  is  to-morrow? 
Hath  it  aught  of  relief? 
Can  it  heal  sorrow? 
Bitter  the  cry  before, 

Dregs  now  my  portion; 
Hath  time  surcease  in  store? 
Is  not  Creed's  mystic  lore 
Mere  mind  distortion? 

What  to  me  words  of  man, 

What  comfort  giving? 
Can  they  remove  death's  ban, 

Give  back  the  living? 
Out  upon  soothing  phrase, 

Empty,  unstable! 
Canst  thou  those  happy  days, 
Brow  fresh  with  manhood's  bays 

Call  back  by  fable? 

Is  this  the  triumph  of  faith, 
Is  this  hope's  guerdon, 

[104] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


That  wraith  should  meet  with  wraith? 

Heavier  the  burden ! 
I  will  declare  my  woe 

Here  at  life's  portals, 
Unreconciled  go, 
Lone,  sad,  nor  care  to  know 

Mortal,  immortal. 


[105] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  NEW  YORK 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  NEW  YORK 

APPROACHING   THE   FERRIES 

(At  Night  in  Winter} 

ROUGH  Hunding's  note    the    groping 
whistles  bleat, 
Pale  snowy  Valkyrs  scurry  through 

the  sky; 

Sudden,  from  out  the  mist  of  drifting  sleet, 
A  vast   light-strewn  Valhalla  smites  the 
eye! 

AT   THE   OPERA 

("  Fledermaus") 

Parterres  of  human  peacocks  after  Frago- 

nard, 
Gay  pride  of  person,  such   as  Watteaus 

strew 
In  gardened  glades.     And  lo,  with  Courts 

afar, 

The  Old  World,  robbed,  doth  gew-gaw 
out  the  New. 

1109] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

("  Tannhauser") 

While  jewelled  fashion   here,  in  pomp  en 
throned, 

In  silken  satisfaction  plays  its  part, 
All,  all  to  music  tribute,  not  disowned 
Pan  leads  his  troop;    Orpheus  is  at  the 
heart! 

BROADWAY 

(Midnight) 

Is  this  the  way  the  prophets  saw 

White  with  the  light  of  love  and  youth? 
Is  this  the  way  that  knows  no  law 

Save  passion  without  ruth? 
Under  the  thrill  of  quivering  sense, 

Broad,  indeed,  is  the  way,  and  well, 
Under  the  glamor  of  life  intense, 

May  its  swift  reaches  seize  on  Hell! 

DIGGING   FOUNDATIONS   AT   NIGHT 

(Cortland  Street) 

Here,  where  the  forges  sound  their  giant  scale 
Of  thud  and  groan,  and  braziers  belch 
their  smoke; 

[110] 


WITH     OTHER     POEM8 


In   depths,  unseen,  backs    bent,    nor  fear, 

nor  quail 

The  myriads  toil ;  bearing  in  cheer  the  yoke, 
Knowing  full  well  that  soon,  aloft,  will  rise 
Some  new  Aladdin's  dream,  scraping  the 

very  skies. 

THE   PINES,    SIXTY-SEVENTH   STREET 

(Central  Park — Looking  Southward) 

Though  winds  are  bleak  this  greening  tells 

of  May, 

Lit  by  the  winter  sunset's  trailing  gleam, 
And  the  susurrus  speaks  of  far-a-way, 
Some    mountain    scarp,    some    hurrying 

woodland  stream — 

Yet  roofed  sierras  crowd  on  every  side, 
And  ceaseless  flows  this  restless  human  tide. 

THE   UNFINISHED   CATHEDRAL 

(Evening — Morningside  Heights,  from  below) 

Sprung  from  a  mighty  hulk,  o'er-arched  on 
high, 

Gigantic,  elemental  ribs  protrude; 
[in] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

In  deepening   mist-swept    eve,    beneath  a 

livid  sky 
What  aeon  tale  of  horror  here  doth  brood? 

THE  "SQUARE"  IN  THE  SLUMS 

Thine,  though  the  city's  squalor  jars, 
A  wildwood  touch  with  grass  a-dew; 

A  hint  of  life  beneath  the  stars, 
Contentment  underneath  the  blue. 

ON   LOWER  BROADWAY 

In  the  fierce  rush  of  storm-swept  ocean 
Who  counts  the  fleck  of  foam  upon  the 
wave? 

And  who,  O  city,  in  thy  wild  commotion, 
One  soul  who  treads  this  pave? 

ON  "PARADE" 

Here  where  the  coarse  and  tawdry  spell  of 

woman  flares 

In  vice,  desire  the  bestial  goad, 
A    sweet-faced    childling    toddles,  smiling, 

unawares — 
A  jewel  set  in  head  of  toad. 

(112] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


THE   CITY  AT   SUNSET 

(From  the  Hudson  River) 

Like  some  huge  monster,  gorged,  misshapen, 

spread  in  blinking  ease, 
Its  bloated  arms  entangling  all  that's  rare; 
The  flash  of  gem,  the  enacred  shell,  life's 

loveliest  argosies 

And  slugs  most  foul  swept  up  from  slime- 
filled  lair. 

THE   RUSH   AT   THE   BRIDGE 

All  that  they  know  of  life  and  home  the  lure 
That  leads  to  panic  madness,  as  of  brutes, 

this  host! 

What  will  not  sons  of  men  endure 
To  gain  the  side  of  those  they  love  the 
most? 

MISTY  DAWN  FROM  THE  EAST  RIVER  (SOUND 
STEAMER) 

(August} 

Flushed  are  these  fronts  with  hectic  touch 

of  day, 

i.       . 

8  [  113  ] 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 

The    quickening   streets    reek   with    the 

morning's  murk 

Scarcely  asleep,  the  all  too-burning  ray 
Awakens  all  to  toil,  to  day-long  work. 


[114] 


AMERICA— A  TRIPTYCH 


AMERICA 

A   TRIPTYCH 

(Centripetal} 

THE  endless  prairies  billow  with  thy 
grain, 
The  forest  fastness  falls    before    thy 

will, 
The  mountain  barriers,  cleft,  proclaim  thy 

skill, 
Nor  gorge,   nor  desert    reach,    nor    floods 

restrain 
Thy  imperious  way.     Thy  bulging  coffers 

drain 

The  frozen  Ophirs  of  the  trackless  north; 
And  lo,  from  out  Earth's  farthest  bounds 

come  forth 

The  steeled  leviathans !  whose  hoarse  refrain 
Of  conquered  steam,  mid  rush  and  stir  of 

keel, 

Wakens  the  echoes  at  thy  water  gate, 
Where  the  dazed  aliens  greet  thy  sunlit  way, 
Seeking  new  lands,  new  life,  a  deeper  weal — 

[1171 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Whilst  thou,  supreme,  sitt'st  confident, — 

elate, 
"Mewing  a  mighty  youth"  in  time's  new 

day. 

(In  the  Vortices — The  Cities) 

The  hills,  asunder  riven,  here  pile  anew 
Their    corniced    heights,    whose   precipices 

fret 

The  half -hid  heavens.     Far  below,  the  set 
Of  human  tide  outpours  its  surges  through 
The   narrowed   lanes,   as   mighty   currents 

strew 

The  shore  with  yields  of  opulent  emprise; 
Ventures  of  Jotunheim,  as  giant  vies 
With  giant  in  the  will  to  dare  and  do. 
And  what  from  out  this  thousand-streeted 

moil? 

An  epic,  far  more  eloquent  than  tale 
Of  heroes  which  Circean  weft  displayed. 
Here,  where  the  altars  rise  to  honest  toil, 
Freed  from  the  tyrant  bonds  of  narrowed 

pale, 
Man's  right  to  rise,  in  naught  is  checked  or 

stayed. 


118] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


(Centrifugal) 

Nor  yields  this  Croesus  gift  thy  sole  acclaim; 
Though  to  the  marts  at  utmost  set  of  sun 
Thy  trade  decretals  undisputed  run, 
And,    ever-widening,    spreads    thy  circling 

fame, 

Above  the  lure  of  gold  the  great  win  name, 
And  genius,  place,  in  thy  forensic  stress; 
Thy  Letters  shower  remotest  wilderness 
And  Art  finds  here  revivifying  flame ! 
O,  what,  before  thy  splendor,  purple  Tyre? 
What  Babylon,  whose  potsherds  strew  the 

sands? 
What  Nineveh,  or  Thebes  whose  walls  lie 

prone? 
Oblivion's  realm;    of  pride  the  wind-swept 

pyre— 

But  here,  the  People,  envied  of  all  lands, 
Perpetuate,  rule;    thy  seat  their  dazzling 

throne ! 


119] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


TO  CANADA  AND— KIPLING 

(On  reading  his  Quatrain  "Quebec,"  from 
the  Canadian  edition  of  the  "Seven  Seas,"  but 
which,  through  a  desire  of  reciprocity  in  gain, 
was  omitted  by  the  "Laureate  of  Empire" 
from  the  American  edition.*) 

If  |   A  IS  not  at  all  that  cockney  souls 

should  vent 
Their  littleness  in  "absent-minded" 

spleen , 

(This  is  an  olden  tale  with  force  unspent) 
That  so  revolts  like  blow  from  alley  slut 
To  those  who've   "killed  by  kindness" 

through  and  through; 
But  that  a  neighbor  stoops  to  low  and 

mean, 

And  eke  exacts,  a  small  revenge  to  glut, 
From  "  bounder  "  bard  this  cheap  time 
serving  due! 


*QUIBEC 

From  thy   gray   scarp    I   view  with   scornful  eye* 
Ignoble  broil  of  freedom  most  unfree, 
But  fear  not  Mother,  where  the  carrion  lies 
There  that  unclean  bird  must  be. 


[120] 


FROM  THE  "OTHER  SIDE" 


IN  VENICE 

THAT  I  with  thee,  along  the  tideless 
stream 
Might    idly  float — as    night's    deep 

purples  stretch 

A  canopy  and  moonlit  belfrys  etch 
Their  grace  of  line  upon  the  wave — and 

dream 
Of  joys  to  be. 

That  I  with  thee,  whilst  music  steals  the 

ears, 

Should  let  mine  eyes  alone  reveal  the  sign 
Of  heart  desire,  and  find  my  fate  in  thine, 
Whose  light  of  love  gives  hope  to  all  the 

years 
And  life  to  me. 

That  I  with  thee,  full-furled  the  hurrying 

sail, 
In  some  soft  shallop,  silken-hung,   might 

drift 

[123] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

To  where  the  mystic  sunset  portals  lift 
Their  burnished  gold — and  find,  behind  the 

veil, 
New  ecstasy ! 


[124] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


UNDER  THE  DOME  OF  THE 
INVALIDES 

(At  the  Tomb  of  Napoleon) 

NOT  as  proud  Pharaoh  in  dark  cham 
bers  laid, 
Not    as    great    Caesar    niched    in 

crowded  gloom, 

But  shrined  before  the  altar's  golden  brume 
Under  the  dome  of  kings,  all  unafraid, 
Whose  sapphire  lights,  blue  as  Elysian  glade, 
As  marble  walls  reflect  the  gleaming  tomb, 
A  Hero's  zodiac  in  stone  illume. 
And  yet,  'tis  not  what  fame  assembles  here 
That  strikes   the   soul   as   awe-compelling 

dream, 

Exalting  those  who,  silent,  humbly  scan 
The  accidents  of  homage  at  this  bier, 
But  since  above  this  clay  abides,  supreme, 
The  very  boding  presence  of  the  Man! 


125] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAK 


MONA  LISA 

("La  Gioconda") 

A  MARY  who  hath  yielded  more  than 
heart, 
Serene,  thou  smilest    in  thy    calm 

disdain, 

At  thought  of  censor  tongues  a-tilt  in  vain, 
As  envious  Marthas  eased  the  bitter  smart 
Of  loveless  ways,  knowing  no  nobler  part, 
And  found   oblivion.      Thine   the  eternal 

gain! 

Time  yields  its  guerdon,  whatsoe'er  the  pain, 
Though  sacrificed,  thou  liv'st  in  deathless 

art!— 

And  so  above  all  petty  circumstance 
Of  earthly  fact  we  may  e'en  now  divine, 
— Howe'er  inscrutable  thy  baffling  glance — 
Behind  that  beauty  that  exacts  its  toll, 
The  marvel  that  the  things  of  clay  enshrine, 
The  mystery  of  life,  the  human  soul. 


[126] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


IN  COLOGNE   CATHEDRAL 

A  PURPLE   twilight   falls   within  the 
nave, 
As  if  some  sunset,  far,  where  bleak 

winds  sough, 
Were  seen  through  beechen  forest,  gaunt  of 

bough; 

And  all  the  aisles,  as  organ  murmurs  lave 
The  up-reaching  vaults,  echo  the  chanted 

stave, 

Which,  swelling,  rises  soft,  a  whispered  vow — 
And  oh,  what  radiant  joy,  what  thoughts 

endow 
These  faces,  rapt,  with  hopes:    like  those 

that  gave 
To     martyrs — calm     when     Nero's     lions 

pressed — 
A  look  that  awed  the  worldlings  drunk  with 

power. 

Yea,  in  the  altar  glow,  the  long,  long  Past 
Conquers  the  Present  in  this  fretted  vast, 
And  Rome  renews  her  full  triumphant  hour 
Through  sanctuary  in  each  faithful  breast! 


[127] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

IN  A  NORTH  GERMAN  WOODLAND 

("7m  Walde") 

THE  depths  invite,  beyond  the  sun- 
strewn  park, 
Beyond  red  roofs,  agleam  at  even 
tide; 
Past  spectral   birches,    where  cool   waters 

glide, 
Guarding  the  edge,  as  beeches  gray  and 

stark 
In   narrowing   lanes    the   forest   highways 

mark; 
Green  depths  that  stretch  fir-bounded  far 

and  wide, 

A  leaf -flecked  weft,  full  tapestried 
In  mystic  gold,  ere  falls  the  silvern  dark. 
O,  woods!   what  olden  echo  still  resounds, 
What  minstrel  note  of  dim  enchanted  deed 
Sung  at  the  cradle  of  a  mighty  race! 
What  magic  in  this  fairy  land  abounds, 
Throwing,   o'er   hidden   tarn   and   flowery 

mead, 
A  haunting  folk-spell  time  can  ne'er  efface! 

[128] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


TANNHATJSER'S  CASTLE 

(Nocturne — The  Valley  of  the  Wartburg, 
Eisenach) 

THOU  shinest  there,  serene  in  darken 
ing  sky, 
O  evening  star!  though    long   the 

aeon's  toll 

Ere  man,  uplifted,  felt  the  thrill  of  soul, 
And,  quickened  by  thy  grateful  beaconry 
Above  the  mount,  saw,  in  this  sign  on  high, 
Emblem  of  Hope  to  those  once  lost  in  dole, 
Knight,  saint  and  churl,  groping  in  noisome 

hole 
Where  love  and  faith  lay,  seeming  doomed 

to  die — 
And,   as  these  valleys  ring  with  summer 

mirth, 

Thy  radiant  glory  there  proclaims  anew 
The  truth  that  man  lives  not  by  bread  alone! 
And,  though  Trade's  noisy  wains  go  hurtling 

through 

These  forest  aisles,  here  Art,  on  leafy  throne, 
Sees  Spirit  triumph  o'er  the  things  of  earth! 

o  1 129  ] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

IN  FRANCE 

SOUVENIR   OF   THE   MIDI 

(Near  Carcasonne) 

A  SUMMER  glow  burns  on  the  fields, 
The  poppy  by  the  furrow  drowses, 
The  matin  wind  its  treasure  yields 
Of  distilled  sweets  its  breeze  arouses 
In  leisured,  lazy,  drifting  flight 
Through  shut-in  gardens  of  delight. 

Beyond,  where  brave  weeds  climb  the  hill, 
O'er    sun-scorched    path    their    pennons 
flaunting, 

The  white  road  makes  its  way  at  will; 
Nor  height,  nor  slope  its  ardor  daunting, 

But  hastens  tree-embowered  down, 

The  long,  long  vale  into  the  town. 

And  lo,  as  carls  in  petty  trade 

Seek   there   their   gain   with   wit   that's 

nimble, 
Above  the  New,  all  undismayed, 

The  Old  looms  gray  in  grim  cut  symbol; 

1130] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


An  eagle  eyrie,  broodlings  flown, 
Telling  its  tale  in  serrate  stone. 

Unchanged,  these  turrets  seek  the  sky; 

Unchanged,  the  postern  breaks  the  ingle; 
Fretting  the  same  broad  canopy 

The  ruddy -channeled  roofs  commingle; 
Perchance  some  Sleeping  Beauty  waits 
The  Prince's  knock  within  these  gates! 

For  oh,  the  world  of  fume  seems  far 
Beyond  this  blue  horizon  hidden! 

No  echoes  from  its  Babel  mar 

This  bastioned  close;  its  pomps  unbidden 

Its  gauds  unseen,  its  voice  unheard 

Disturb  not  song  of  stream  or  bird. 

Nations  may  rage  and  rulers  plot, 

The  great  may  wive  and  thrive  or  perish, 

Millions  may  look  to  turn  of  lot 
For  weal  or  woe  to  all  they  cherish; 

But  here  life's  currents  go  their  way 

Serene  in  peace  that  knows  no  day ! 


1131] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

IN  ITALY 

TEMPLE   OF   DIANA — LAKE   OF   NEMI 

(Spring  on  the  Alban  Hills) 

KOYAL  mottlings  on  the  green 
Of  cyclamen  and  eglantine, 
Nodding  close,  or,  waving  free 
O'er  the  rising  terraced  lea, 
Hidden  in  the  ways  embowered, 
Filling  alleys  orange-flowered, 
Gay  mosaics,  garden  planned, 
Blooming  fresh  at  Spring's  command; 
Royal  mottlings  on  the  green 
Of  cyclamen  and  eglantine. 

There  the  lofty  height  cascades 
Roseate  blooms,  where  else  pervades 
Spice  of  laurel,  myrtle,  box 
As  the  wind  the  scent  unlocks, 
Spreads  the  attar  on  the  breeze, 
Shakes  the  tassels  of  the  trees, 
Scattering  freely  dust  of  gold 
O'er  the  ivy-covered  mould; 

[132] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


Royal  mottlings  on  the  green 
Of  cyclamen  and  eglantine. 

In  the  woods  where  Dian  stalks 
'Midst  cupped  Nemi's  lovely  walks, 
Lo,  the  cuckoo's  echoing  call 
Booms  within  the  living  wall, 
Tree-fringed,  offering  to  the  sky, 
Its  sincerest  flattery, 
Sweep  of  azure  as  above 
Smiling  as  if  love  to  love, 
Shadowing  there  the  hours  serene 
Of  cyclamen  and  eglantine! 


[133] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  GALILEO- 
FLORENCE 

("E  Pur  Si  Muove") 

*'    ^ND   still   it    moves,"    the    master, 
/-\  broken,  cried, 

Holding  the  vision  of  the  turning 

earth 

Swinging  its  orbit  round;  a  thing  of  mirth 
For  the  schooled  dunces  who  the  fact  belied. 
And  still  it  moves!  Howe'er  they  in  their 

pride 
Turned   from   the   miracle   of   the   mind's 

rebirth 

The  glorious  later  dawn,  the  newer  worth 
Of    man,    with    all    things    searched    and 

weighed  and  tried. 

And  still  it  moves !     O  prophecy  of  light ! 
Beaconed  by  stake  and  consecrate  by  blood, 
And  loosed  from  all  the  gyves  of  bigot  power 
Lo,  knowledge,  in  its  new  unfettered  might, 
Sweeps  on  in  one  great  universal  flood 
To  final  triumph  in  predestined  hour. 


[134] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


AT  ST.  PETER'S— A  CANONIZATION 

VISIONS  of  John  on  Patmos!     Choir 
on  choir 
Of  witnesses  in  tribute  throng,  world 

sent, 

Crowding  the  aisles  in  awed  bewilderment, 
'Midst  crimson  glow  of  pillars  lined  in  fire! 
And,  in  the  chair,  as  incense  rises  higher, 
Sits  one  enthroned  in  whose  white  pomp  is 

blent 

All  that  men  know  of  state,  of  grave  intent; 
While  blazoned  banners  all  the  hosts  inspire 
With  marvels  told  of  him  who,  e'en  despite 
The  threats  of  ill  won  this  immense  acclaim; 
And  lo,  beneath  the  surface  pageant  lies 
The  truth,  near  lost  in  this  so  dazzling  sight, 
That  to  the  humblest  comes  a  deathless 

fame, 
Through  sacrifice  of  self  that  men  may  rise. 


[135] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

THE  GREEK  TEMPLES  AT  PAESTUM 

(550—450  B.  C.) 

THE  stately  ruins  of  a  Greece  that 
dared 
Strange  seas  and  lands,  whose  epic 

tale  enthralls 
And    holds    one    spellbound   'neath   these 

gray-gold  walls; 
Sun-leached  and  worn  by  all  the  winds  that 

bared 
Long  since  their  secrets  to  the  skies,  where 

fared 
Once   happy   throngs   crowding   the   lofty 

halls, 

Rose  garlanded  as  fading  page  recalls, 
Deserted,  lone!     All  else  the  Past  upreared 
Lies  hidden,  crushed,  the  broken  sherds  of 

Time. 

But  lo,  as  gods  their  puissance  oft  unsealed 
While  still  encradled,  in  these  fanes  we  see 
Majestic  forecasts,  triumphs  still  to  be; 
In  the  proud  lift  of  column  full  revealed 
The  wondrous  childhood  of  an  art  sublime. 

[136] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


ROME 

The  Palaces  of  the  Caesars  in  May 

WHERE  marbled  heights  uprose  in 
tortured  pride 
The   nightingales     are   singing   in 

the  trees, 

While  rose-scents  weight  the  swooning  even 
ing  breeze, 
And  temples,   stark  and   staring,  side  by 

side 
Mark  out  the  Forum — though  full  shrunk 

the  tide 
That    sweeps    across    these    scarred    and 

broken  leas 
Where    trod    the    great    of    earth,    whose 

masteries 
Of  land  and  wave  flung    empire  far  and 

wide! 

O  Rome !  whose  golden  hills  salute  the  light 
Still  wall  begirt,  all,  all  that  man  may  do 
To  force  oblivion  on  thy  storied  years 
Can  ne'er  efface  this   whelming  scorn   of 

might — 

1137] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Writ  large  in  dust  that  once  escaled  the 

blue — 
This  might  that  crumbled  since  it  knew 

not  tears! 

In  the  Coliseum — Moonlight 

O'er  arch  and  curving  rim  the  soft  light 

steals, 

And  all  this  circling  vast  yields  to  the  spell, 
And  looms  a  shrine  where  Night  and  Silence 

dwell, 

Since  what  the  day,  so  pitiless,  reveals 
Of  gaping  wound,  this  silvery  haze  conceals, 
The  while  evoking  fleeting  wraiths  that  tell 
The  boding  secrets  of  this  shadowy  hell, 
Whose  riven  beauty  hauntingly  appeals. 
For,  as  rare  Venus,  reft  of  arms,  still  daunts 
All  new  perfection;  or  Apollo  maimed, 
Or    Nike,    from    some    island    'scarpment 

hurled, 
So  this  grim  torso,  summing  Rome,  e'er 

vaunts 

Its  blood-stained  splendor,  never  yet  out- 
famed, 
And  rules  the  wonder  city  of  the  world! 

[138] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


The  Protestant  Cemetery 

Asleep,  unwatched  by  those  whose  names 

they  bore — 

Dear  names  and  scripts  that  tell  of  home- 
loved  ways — 
They  rest,  beneath  the  laurel's  freshening 

bays 

And  myrtles,  guardians  of  the  nether  shore; 
At  last  at  peace,  whate'er  their  life  before, 
Great  or  unknown,  worthy  of  blame  or 

praise, 

They  sought  the  dalliance  of  sunlit  days 
Whose  magic  roads  lead  Romeward  as  of 

yore, 
But  heard,   amid  her  ruins,   Death's  low 

call. 

And,  oh,  what  pathos  in  these  simple  tombs, 
For  some  the  very  crypts  of  dull  despair, 
Where  else  the  hands  of  love  do  smooth  the 

pall! 
What  tears  for  them,  exiled,  amid  these 

glooms, 
Forever  from  fond  hearts  of    those    that 

care! 

[139] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

At  Hadrian's  Villa 

'Mid  olive  groves,  pallid  and  ivy  bound, 
Fantastic,  gnarled  in  trunk  and  tracery, 
And  where  dark  cypresses  spring  heaven 
ward,  free, 

And  terraces  with  massy  oaks  are  crowned, 
Colossal  vaults  upthrust  whose  cliffs  astound 
The  wanderer  from  the  long-sloped  flowing 

sea 

Of  broad  Campagna,  stretching  distantly, 
Whose   tinkling   murmurs   everywhere   re 
sound. 

And  can  it  be  that  this  so  great  emprise, 
This  filch  of  glories  mirroring  many  lands, 
Greece,  Egypt,  Asia,  yea,  the  very  heart 
Of  loveliness,  when  men  dared  all  for  art, 
Was  sheer  caprice,  as  one  plays  with  com 
mands? 
Surely  some  god  bid  this  enchantment  rise ! 

From  the  Ilex  Groves,  Villa  Medici 

The  sun  sinks  barred  in  pines  on  Mario's 

crest; 
The  swallows,  screaming,  fleck  the  golden  air, 

[140] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Whilst  all  the  myriad  bells  of  Rome  declare 
In  silvern  tones  the  hour  of  vesper  rest; 
And,  as  the  light  fails  in  the  dying  west, 
And  Night  is   loosed  from  out  its  Sabine 

lair, 
Through  ilex  boskage,  dim,  strange  shapes 

do  stare, 

As  if  the  unquiet  dead  with  hectic  zest 
Of   days   afar   sought  here  their   old-time 

life- 

Giving  quick  gleam  of  Messalina's  face 
Leering  through  treillage,  sick  for  wanton 

boon, 

Or,  the  lithe  line  of  death-defying  grace 
Of  Antinous.      Ah!  what  fancies  here  are 

rife, 
Evoked  of  dust  and  the  wan  crescent  moon ! 

On  the  Spanish  Steps — Midnight* 

In  swift  cascade  the  steps,  scarce  seeming 

stone, 
Fall  double-sourced  from  mount  to  street 

below, 

*  Hard  by  the  house  of  Keats. 
1 141] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Eddying  in  broken  ivory  waves  that  flow 
Past   moon-touched   balustrades   and   bul 
warks  thrown 
Against  the  slope,   to  where    the  pulsing 

moan 
Of   fount,   complaining   'neath   the  lamp's 

dim  glow, 

Breaks  the  dark  silence  of  the  palaced  row 
Whose  rambling  pave  e'er  broadens,  mem 
ory  strewn. 

And,  as  the  Poet's  spirit  stirs  the  square, 
Fancy,  on  fire  from  this  unquenched  flame, 
Moved  as  by  visions  glimpsed  in  mystic 

tome, 
Sees  from  the  heavens  descend  the  angelic 

stair, 

And,  all  transfigured,  e'en  the  alien  name 
Senses  the  soul,  th'  eternal  heart  of  Rome ! 


1142] 


HUMORESQUE 


HUMPTY-DUMPTY 

(As  the  Author  of  "Paradise  Lost"  Might 
Have  Written  It) 

HIGH  on  a  wall  that  far  aloft,  uprist — 
Above  the  stretch  of  plain  extend 
ing  far 
Till    distance    dimming    hid    the    realm's 

extent, 

Resourceful  in  its  might  of  means  and  men, 
Above  the  mass  of  barbican  and  keep, 
All  crenelated  in  the  Guelphic  style, 
Whose  deep  machicolations  told  of  strength 
And    towering    heights    commanded    the 

demesne, 

Whose  sheer  effect,  unbroken,  smote  the  sky 
Not  roughly  hewn  in  blocks  ranged  tier  on 

tier, 

With  line  irregular  or  rudely  stepped, 
But  shining  adamant  laid  evenly 
With  joints  concealed  by  cunning  of  the  Ind, 
Whose  swart  artificers  laid  stone  on  stone 
And  wrought  the  marvel  as  by  wizardry, 

10  ( 145  ] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

And  topped  the  glistening  face  with  pictured 

frieze — 

High  up,  so  high  that  Babel  was  surpassed, 
On  jutting  cornice,  dizzily  emperched, 
Lo,  proud  of  station,  Humpty-Dumpty  sat! 
***** 

Tell,  Muse,  who  once  upon  the  Roman  hills 
Sang  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  human  pride, 
Who  saw  the  Csesars  humbled  in  the  dust, 
Who  erst  had  built  them  golden  palaces 
On  marble  steeps  and  ruled  the  encircling 

world 
With  kings  as  galley  slaves  and  household 

guards; 

Or,  of  that  older  line  beloved  of  Bel 
Whose  habitations  terraced  all  the  banks, 
Where  broad  Euphrates  spread  his  reedy 

waste, 

Tho'  naught  now  marks  the  site  save  shape 
less  mounds, 

The  refuge  for  the  jackal  and  the  owl, 
What   once   was   seat  of  proud   Assyria's 

lords — 

Tell,  Muse,  still  pondering  o'er  the  storied 
past, 

[146] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


In  stately  number  of  this  later  woe 
When  Humpty-Dumpty  slipped  and  tum 
bled  o'er! 

What  were  the  sad  results  to  men  set  out; 
Since  ages  still  do  chant  the  plaintive  lay, 
And  hold  the  tragedy  in  awe,  and  cry 
Against  injustice  and  too  sudden  fate 
By  which  God's  ways  are  writ  in  rigid  laws 
Inscrutable  to  mortal  eyes  at  times, 
Nor  justified  by  every  prattling  bard ! 
The  why  and  how  'twas  Humpty-Dumpty 

fell 

From  periled  state  and  lost  his  eagle  poise 
When  fortune  seemed  to  smile  and  e'en 

exult. 

Tell,  Muse,  and  of  that  fall,  lo,  quick,  relate 
How  whizzing  like  a  ball  from  ammiraFs 

gun, 

Sent  upward  then  descending  to  the  ground, 
Or,  like  some  meteor,  seen  athwart  the  sky, 
Whose  horrid  trail  of  fire  affrights  the  Popes, 
And,  though  forbid  by  bulls,  goes  streaming 

on, 

With  swift  acceleration  falling  down 
In  unremitting  flight  till  earth  is  struck 

[147] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAB 

Then  dissipating  into  air  is  lost, 

How  Humpty-Dumpty,  from  his  eyrie  shot, 

Fell  through  the  shuddering  air  that  could 

not  hold 

The  swift  displacement  of  his  weighty  bulk. 
And  so,  fell  on,  past  towers  and  pinnacles, 
Past  parapets  and  balconies  in  line, 
Where  fair  ones  shrieked  to  see  the  spectacle. 
Nor  hand  could  save  him  e'en  had  any 

willed, 

Past  lower  battlements  with  final  cry, 
Until  the  courtyard  pave  with  sickening 

thud 

Receives  what  once  was  semblance  of  a  man ! 
Tell,  Muse,  moreover,  as  a  hint  to  those 
Who   oft   in   vain   essays   do   waste   their 

strength, 

In  tasks  Sisyphean,  what  the  aftermath, 
The  final  consequences  of  this  fall;  relate 
How  all  the  foolish,  yea  and  e'en  the  wise, 
With  divinations  strange  sought  out  relief, 
To  right  the  fallen;  yea,  but  all  in  vain! 
In  vain  the  lamentations  of  the  host, 
In  vain  the  grief  of  those  of  high  estate, 
In  vain  the  engineries  invoked, 

[148] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


All,  all,  in  vain,  naught,  naught  was  of 

avail; 

Nor  all  the  pomp  and  pageantry  of  power, 
Nor  all  the  puissance  of  royal  state, 
Nor  all  the  king's  great  horse,  a  princely 

troop, 

Some  forty  thousand  ready  for  the  word, 
Nor  men  on  foot,  some  myriads  in  arms, 
Acting  in  severalty,  or  all  in  one 
With  mighty  unanimity  at  work, 
Could     set     poor     Humpty-Dumpty     up 

again! 

For  such  the  dire  confusion  of  the  fall 
That  men,  in  wonderment  themselves  e'en 

asked 

If  e'er  he  sat  upon  the  wall  on  high, 
So  scarcely  seemed  he  built  for  such  estate. 
They   wot   not   if   their   minds    were   not 

awry 
When  what  had  been  was  memoried  in  the 

face 
Of  what  was  there  before  their  streaming 

eyes; 
And,  still  amazed,  still  questioning  what  it 

meant, 

[H9J 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 

Betook  them  to  their  tasks  and  went  their 

ways 
*  *  *  *  * 

Tell,  Muse,  this  tale,  so  that  in  years  to 

come, 

As  nursery  jingles  sing  in  sobbing  rhyme 
Of  Humpty-Dumpty  and  the  uprising  wall, 
The  world  may  pause  and  drop  its  meed  of 

tears 
O'er  him  to  fateful  end  predestinate ! 


150] 


A  LINE  OR  SO-IN  VARYING  MOODS 


"EVENING,"    BY    GEORGE    INNESS 

THE  western  sky,  cloud  woven,  is  quick 
with  cunning  fires, 
O'er   all   the  graying  mystery   of 

evening  broods; 
Transmuting  grosser  things  the  very  brush 

aspires, 

And    man   reveals    himself   in   Nature's 
subtlest  moods. 


MOONRISE  AT  SEA 

OUT  of  the  wave-spun  murk,  a  golden 
ball; 
Over  the  sea  a  wizard  light, 
An  elfin  dance  where  the  soft  beams  fall, 
A  truce  to  night. 


1153] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


FATE 

DARK-CENTRED  in  the  garden  path 
the  busy  life 
Of  teeming  ants;    a  little  world 

in  great 
Where    all   is    mirrored;     peace    domestic, 

alien  strife: 

Then   heedless   step   of   man — and   all's 
annihilate. 


DULLARDS! 

SOME  souls,  like  worlds  long  dead,  still 
circle  round 
A  central  orb;  their  gloom  the  very 

heart  of  night  outstrips; 
In  dull  opacity  they  hug  their  bound, 
Revealed  alone  by  that  which  they  eclipse. 


[154] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


WHEN  AMONG  FOOLS 

THOUGH   rare  the   gem,   if  but  the 
sordid  mass 
Of  crude  complacency  returns,  in 

dulled  response,  its  gaze, 
Its  facets  flash  not,  lo,  as  through  a  glass 
Blurred  and  obscured  its  timid  beauty 
plays ! 


LOVE'S  SOLSTICE 

(Christmas) 

EST    human    hearts    grow    cold    and 
bitter  in  the  endless  drear 
Of  world-strife,  battling  long  with 

cankered  self  and  guile 
Unhindered;  lo,  a  day  is  set;  life  brightens 

with  all  cheer 

As  love's  dear  Solstice  rules,  its  sun  a 
baby's  smile! 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 


ACQUAINTED! 

At,  the  joy  in  the  greeting! 
Serene,  for  the  moment  no  longer 
alone! 
And  yet,  in  the  meeting, 

A  pang  at  the  heart;  one  might  not  have 
known. 


THE  OLD  DOOR  KNOCKER 

THESE  hand  worn  knobs  the  years 
betray, 
Long  years  of  many  a  miss  and 

meeting; 
Yet  freely  lift  and  knock  to-day, 

Doors  gladly  turn  at  friendly  greeting — 
Give  hearty  "welcome"  while  they  may, 
Since  life  and  love  are  ever  fleeting. 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


PORTENTS 

THE  crescent  moon  of  yestere'en 
Hung  baleful  in  the  tawny  light, 
Its  cusps,  a-tilt,  held  blood  between 
As  fell  the  grisly  night. 
The  air  from  off  the  stagnant  fen 

Came  thick,  a  carrion-scented  breath — 
A  lonely  bird's  shrill  scream,  and  then 
A  hush the  hush  of  death! 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  A 
BOOK  ON  "ACOUSTICS" 

THIS  is  the  science  that  unlocks 
The  mysteries  of  the  quivering  note, 
Whose  lowest  diapason  rocks 
The  walls,  and  strains  the  reedy  throat; 
Whilst  Echo,  listening  with  all  ears, 

Can  scarcely  catch  the  fairy  tone — 
True  music  of  celestial  spheres — 

As  the  touched  string  yields  up  its  moan 
Of  harmonies,  that  rise  and  die 
In  beauty  that  is  ecstasy. 

[157] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


THE  BURIAL 

AL  day  long  dragged  the  weary  hours, 
With  tongue  of  bell,  the  throb  of 
drum,    the    dole    of   those   who 
mourn, 

Till  lo,  where  sable  curtain  dowers 
The  West  with  signs  of  funery, 
Beyond  the  marge  of  earthly  bowers, 
The  portals  ope  their  jasper  gates,  reveal 

the  sun-swept  bourne, 
Set  in  a  crystal  paved  sea, 

The  dazzling  sign  of  living  hope  to  those 

who  walk  forlorn; 
The  calm  depths  of  eternity. 


CONTRAST 

SMILING,  while  others  mourn, 
Joyful,  sorrow  we  scorn; 
Mourning,  as  others  smile, 
Sadly  the  hours  we  while. 
Wings  the  world  too  this  way; 
One  part  night;  one  part  day. 

[158] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


INEVITABLE 

BLOCK  by  block  we  build,  nor  see 
Lever  of  grim  destiny; 
Laugh  in  joyance  as  we  pave 
Pathway  to  the  open  grave. 
While  we  pity  others'  fate 
Death  knocks  loudly  at  the  gate. 


REAPING 

E~  VE  to  Death:   "O,  reap  not  here, 
There  are  fields  more  brown  and 
sere, 

Spare  this  tender,  budding  ear." 
Death  to  Love :  "  I  garner  where 
I  may  find  the  fruits  most  fair. 
Think  ye  husks  fill  up  my  share?" 


[159] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAB 


SUCCESSFUL 

(Croesus  Speaketh) 

STRUGGLED?— yes,  for  years;  sought 
high  and  low, 
Nothing  withstood;  and  then  supreme 

command! 

But  even  soul  was  sold — it  did  not  count — 
And  now — ah,  God!  the  very  last  of  woe! 
To  stand  within  the  glamor  of  the  land 
And  only  know  the  shadow  of  the  mount! 


[160] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


CONFESSIO 

I  DO  not  know  whence  all  this  sprang, 
The  world-stuff  of  the  stellar  main, 
When  morning  stars  together  sang 
And  harmonies  most  subtle  rang. 
And  what,  the  last  dread  veil  in  twain, 
The  scene,  where  Cause  alone  doth  reign, 
I  do  not  know. 

Whether  behind  the  mystic  mien 
Of  law  in  nature,  force  serene, 
The  face  of  love  can  yet  be  seen 
I  do  not  know. 

And  though  effects  their  secrets  tell, 
Forecast  the  final  end  of  all, 
Whether  there's  aught  beside  the  pall, 
And  life,  that  stands  for  more  than  cell, 
Lives  on,  eterne,  and  all  is  well, 
I  do  not  know. 


11  1161] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


CHOICE! 

THE  path  was  broad;  the  reaches,  open 
to  the  sun 
On    either    side,    through    pillared 

colonnade 

Gave  free  access,  e'en  as  the  fleeting  whim 
Might    seize;     enchanting    vistas    loomed, 

whose  choice 

Was  as  the  will  to  choose,  without  dispute, 
As  invitation  smiled  on  every  hand. 

***** 

For  thus  it  seemed,  as  on  the  pilgrim  fared 
Ere  yet  the  milestone  years  had  told  their 

tale; 
Till  lo,  with  heights  well  gained,  and  past 

in  view 

In  full  perspective,  wonderful  the  change ! 
One  road  but  meets    the   eye,   of   narrow 

bounds ; 
Hemmed   in;     no   turn   to   right   or   left; 

straight  on; 

Closed  as  an  alley  pleached  with  marble  walls, 
Unbroken  as  to  base  or  fluted  shaft; 
The  way  marked  out,  and  inescapable ! 

[162] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


MEASUREMENT 

DEAREST,  the  world  indeed  is  small, 
narrow  its  plan ! 
Its    millioned    reaches    but    fan 
tastic  dream 

Of  seething  marts,  dark  distances  that  hide 
Strange  things  afar,  remote,  beyond  the 

stream 
Of  multitude,  beyond  the  swell  of  human 

tide. 

And  yet,  what  if  the  gloomy  ocean  beds 
Stretch  vastly,  and  the  swelling  land 

Knows  every  clime,  from  ice-bound  polar 

dreads 
To  tropic  lures?    Since  we  command 

Our  fate,  let  others  fight  the  crowding 

things  that  seem — 

Dearest,  the  world  indeed  is  small;    two 
hearts  its  span! 


[163] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


ON  NE  BADINE  PAS  AVEC  L' AMOUR 

HIS  love  had  kindled  all  her  life 
Until    there    came    the    grievous 
wrong 
Too  hurt  for  words,  too  cowed  for  strife, 

Honor,  enmired,  dragged  scarce  along. 
Woe  came  to  her.     He  went  his  way; 
But  master  turned  the  slave  that  day. 
And  rich  in  lands,  in  all  else  poor, 
On  ne  badine  pas  avec  V amour. 

He  traveled  far  in  climes  most  strange, 
And  many  nestled  by  his  side, 

Nor  healed  the  ache.     What  profits  change? 
Heart  turned  to  stone  at  beck  of  pride, 

Youth  wasted,  spent  itself  in  vain; 

Fled  nor  returned  the  old-time  pain, 

Ah,  rich  in  gold,  in  all  else  poor, 

On  ne  badine  pas  avec  V amour. 

Years  told  their  passage  on  the  brow, 
Time  ravaged  all  he  held  most  dear, 

No  hands  outstretched  to  greet  him  now, 
And  all  but  memory,  withered,  sere. 

[164] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


Unloved,  unsought,  tho'  deep  his  lore, 
Full  humbled  could  he  ask  for  more? 
And  rich  in  life,  in  all  else  poor, 
On  ne  badine  pas  avec  V amour. 


165] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

BALLAD 

(With  a  Double  Refrain) 

"  'A  |  AIS  some  day  soon  the  ship  will 

away 
(Oh,  it's  work  to-day  and  rest 

to-morrow) 

And  bring  my  darling  back  to  me. 
'Tis^some  day  soon — what  is  that  you 

say? — 

And  a  glad  home-comin'  it  will  be." 
(Oh,  it's  work  to-day,  to-morrow) 
"So  here  I  wait  for  him,"  she  said. 
How  could  they  tell  her  he  was  dead? 

"He's  toilin'  hard  for  me — And  then 
(Oh,  it's  work  to-day  and  rest  to-morrow) 
He  wasn't  the  likely  lad  to  write; 
Sure,  'tis  idle  folk  who  are  quick  of  pen, 
And  there's  not  much  chance  in  his  tent  at 

night." 

(Oh,  it's  work  to-day,  to-morrow) 
"So  here  I  wait  for  him,"  she  said. 
They  could  not  tell  her  he  was  dead. 

U66] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


"And  you  all  mean  well,  but  I  heed  you  not; 
(Oh,  it's  work  to-day  and  rest  to-morrow) 
For  the  world  is  big  and  the  world  is  wide. 
'Tis  not  so  easy  to  choose  your  lot 
And  luck  needs  coaxing  to  take  your  side." 
(Oh,  it's  work  to-day,  to-morrow) 
"He's  comin'  home  to  me,"  she  said — 
"How  dare  you  say  my  boy  is  dead?" 

And  the  days  rolled  up  a  tale  of  years. 
(Oh,  it's  work  to-day  and  rest  to-morrow) 
And  she  still  hoped  on  though  her  heart  was 

sore. 
And  dimmed  were  those  eyes  oft  wet  with 

tears ; 

Till  lo !  one  day,  as  she  watched  the  door, 
(Oh,  it's  work  to-day,  to-morrow) 
"Why  there's  my  darling,  at  last!"  she  said. 
"I  knew  he  would  come" — And  she  too  was 

dead. 


[167] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


LULLABY 

(For  E.  E.  M.) 

SANDMAN  o'er  the  house  is  flying, 
Darkening  all  the  purple  sky; 
And  the  stars  are  peeking,  spying 
From  the  windows  up  so  high. 
Sleep  and  slumber, 
Who  shall  number 

Fays  of  elfland  crowding  near? 
Softly  singing, 
Harebells  ringing,— 

Sleep  and  slumber;  night  is  here! 

E'en  the  birds  have  ceased  their  calling, 

Hushed  and  silent,  lo,  they  rest; 
Heads  are  drooping,  heads  are  falling 
Nestling  close  on  mother's  breast. 
Sleep  and  slumber, 
Who  shall  number 

Fays  of  elfland  crowding  near? 
Softly  singing, 
Harebells  ringing,— 

Sleep  and  slumber;   night  is  here! 

[168] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


Lights  in  all  the  lanes  are  blinking, 

Every  tot  is  snug  at  home; 
Only  pussy  sits  a-thinking 

Of  the  chance  in  dark  to  roam. 
Sleep  and  slumber, 
Who  shall  number 

Fays  of  elfland  crowding  near? 
Softly  singing, 
Harebells  ringing,— 

Sleep  and  slumber;  night  is  here! 

Closer!  closer!  eyelids  tighten; 

Fades  the  memory  of  the  day; 
Shut  for  good!   there's  naught  to  frighten, 
Sleep  and  dream  the  hours  away! 
Sleep  and  slumber, 
Who  shall  number 

Fays  of  elfland  crowding  near? 
Softly  singing, 
Harebells  ringing, — 

Sleep  and  slumber;  night  is  here! 


1169 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


WHEN  VENUS  VIES 

WHEN  Venus  with  fair  Dian  vies, 
Emblazoned     on     the     wintry 
skies, 

And  lusty  Boreas,  rough  of  throat, 
Pours  forth  in  hurtling  blasts  his  note; 
The  day  in  lovelier  evening  dies 
When  Venus  vies. 

Then  comes  the  gentle  hour,  when  glows 
The  firelight  on  the  cheek's  pale  rose; 
And  softer  gleam  in  Lydia's  eyes 
When  Venus  vies. 

And,  as  beneath  the  tree-fringed  hill 
The  low  moon  hides,  a  subtle  thrill 
Is  felt  as  one  star's  magic  light 
Illumes  the  dusk.    As  falls  the  night, 
E'en  dull-edged  time  serenely  flies 
When  Venus  vies. 


[170] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


TIME— WHO   CARES   BECAUSE   'TIS 
FLEETING? 


T 


(Catch  for  a  Class  Reunion) 

IME? — who  cares  because  'tis  fleeting, 

Years  are  but  a  day? 
Older? — well  a  heartier  greeting, 
Sing  a  roundelay ! 


FAME? — we've  courted,  yea,  and  chaffed 
her, 

She's  a  jade,  you  know. 
Flout  her;  she's  all  smiles  and  laughter, 

Just  won't  let  you  go ! 

LOVE? — we've  won,  or  lost,  what  matter; 

Make  the  best  of  fate ! 
Truly,  vows  are  idle  chatter; 

Cupid's  blind,  I'd  state ! 

LIFE? — we've  lived  its  fullest  measure, 

Sorrow  they  who  may; 
Take  no  tale  of  gold  or  treasure, 

Here's  content  alway ! 

[171] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAK 

JOY? — 'tis  in  the  present  hour; 

Why,  we're  not  of  age ! 
Sunlit  now,  whate'er  may  lower, 

Hope  on  every  page ! 


172] 


HUNGER;  OR,  "THE  BREAD  OF  LIFE' 


HUNGER 

OR 

"THE  BREAD  OF  LIFE" 

(Charity  Under  the  Old  Regime) 

The  Elect. 

FRED. — Hello,  old  boy!     Why,  what's  your 

hurry?  haste 

Ne'er  yet  became  your  style. 
BOB. —  Just  as  you  will. 

To-day    Miss    R.    returns    to    town,   you 

know. 
FRED.— Oh,  Polly  Ritter!     Good!     I  hope 

her  smiles 
Will  end  this  rain.     Though,  come  to  think, 

by  Jove! 

She  raised  a  tempest  at  the  Pier. 
BOB.-  Cut  that! 

It  takes  a  girl  of  brains  to  stir  things  up. 

And  then,  you  know,  well 

FRED. —  Hang  it  all,  well  what? 

You    haven't?      Out    with    it,    old    man. 

Confess ! 

1175] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

You've  got  to  break  the  news  some  day, 

you  know. 

Your  face  is  eloquent  whate'er  your  words, 
And  silence  in  such  matters  spells   "I'm 

hit." 
You'll  dine  with  me  this  eve  I  hope.     The 

Club. 
Miss  Polly's  charm  will  surely  grant  you 

leave 

At  least,  you  haven't  lost  your  appetite, 
And  then  I'll  play  the  eager  listener, 
And  let  you  tell  the  "story  of  your  life." 
No,  no;  I  mean  the  story  of  your  love. 
BOB    (hesitating). — All    right.      I'll    come. 

You  see,  it's  this  way,  Fred 

FRED. — Of  course — I'll  hear  it  all  to-night. 

And  Bob,  at  seven 
Remember,  sharp! 

(Later  entering  the  X  Club.} 
Just  half  past  six.     I  got  here  early.     Boy, 
The  evening  papers!     Dr.  Marchand  here? 
(Sits  down  by  the  large  window  in  a  low 
easy  leather  chair  and  reads.) 
More  crimes !     And  type  that  fills  the  page. 
I  wonder  which  is  worse,  the  deed,  or  print 

[176] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


That  magnifies  it  to  the  uttermost 
Till  none  escape  it;  into  every  nook 
Its  influence  sweeps  and  those  who  run 
Not  only  may  but  must,  however  pressed, 
Keep    running    hard    lest    they    be    over 
whelmed, 
And,  like  the  rest,   are  swallowed  up  in 

"news." 

Another  murder,  and,  a  "mystery!" 
Of  course,  one  hardly  kills  his  man  in  fun, 
With  witnesses  to  catch  one  in  the  act. 
That  is  the  way  among  our  Gallic  friends 
Who  prick  each  other  with  a  gentle  sword 
Or  pepper  with  a  pistolet  in  style, 
And  keep  the  code  duello  up  to  date 
With  vitascopic  cameras  at  hand. 
Our  murderers,  true  conservatives, 
Will  none  of  that.     They  still  work  in  the 

dark, 

Prefer  the  secrecy  of  old  romance. 
And,  'tis  surprising  how  so  old  a  trade, 
Or   art — my   bow   to    Cain, — remains   un 
changed 

In  motives,  methods,  even  in  the  tools. 
The  Mafia,  eh!     I  always  told  them  so. 

12  [177  ] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Let  down  the  bars,  drag  all  the  Latins  in, 
Palermo's  slums  and  Naples'  reeking  lanes, 
And  lo,  your  Sicilies  will  breed  you  germs, 
Social  bacilli,  that  the  state, 
With    all    its    Boards    and    laws,    cannot 

destroy. 

Germs  of  a  feverish  discontent, 
More  to  be  feared  than  those  that  spell 

disease, 

With  foot-long  names  that  Loeffler  isolates 
Or  Haffkine  worries  with  his  antidotes. 
Lord,  how  it  rains !    The  very  street's  afloat ! 
(Reads  a  while  longer,  then  goes  out  to 
the  dining  room  to  order  dinner.) 
Ah,  pleasant  odor  that!     The  dinner  card! 
I  hope  the  chef  has  some  surprise  in  store, 
Some  specialty  to  take  away  the  blues, 
So!     Sweetbreads,  broiled  with  mushrooms, 

that's  the  jig, 

A  salmi;  timbales  in  the  latest  vein; 
John's  table  d'hotes  are  devilish  hard  to 

beat. 

How  full  the  room,  the  season's  under  way. 
McMaynooth's  ordering  supper  with  an  air 
Of  o'er-ripe  lord.  No  table  d'hote  for  him, 

[178] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


At  home  he  dines  in  bourgeois  style,  I  bet. 

I'm  getting  hungry,  for  these  sight  and 
sounds 

Are  too  suggestive — Bob's  a  lucky  dog, 

I  hope  he  won't  play  Raleigh  very  long 

And  keep  me  starving  while  he  sits  and 
spoons — 

Gad,  but  I  wish  I  had  his  chance,  I  know — 

Old  Barker  must  be  famished.  One  would 
think 

His  life  had  been  a  gastric  phantasy 

Of  lunches  snatched  in  railway  restaurants. 

Oh,  yes,  the  menu!     Dinner,  as  arranged. 

A  trifle  extra  with  the  sweets  and  cheese. 

The  soup?  Oh,  bisque  of  snails  will  do, 
I  think; 

The  usual  wines.  The  coffee  served  down 
stairs 

And,  mind!  no  camembert  unless  it's  ripe. 
(Returns  to  reception  room.  Sinks 
into  chair.  A  long  wait.) 

This  night's  the  devil's  own.  The  rain 
comes  down 

In  sheets  as  if  the  skies  were  all  unhinged. 

I  wish  that  ass  would  come  to  time,  it's  late, 

1179] 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 

And  to  my  mind  there's  nothing  quite  so 

bad 

As  waiting  for  a  man  behind  the  hour; 
To  sit  in  body-anguish,  hungry,  mad, 
With  nerves  screwed  up  to  expectation's 

point, 

Whilst  he,  forsooth,  is  calm  as  fate  itself. 
I'm  like  a  year-old  bride,  who,  late  at  night, 
In    smart   house   frock    with    all    the   gas 

turned  low 

Awaits  her  lord,  all  frowns.     But  he,  serene, 
Surprised  at  naught,  is  ready  with  regret, 
No  lame  excuse  upon  his  mellow  tongue.— 
Those  mushrooms.     Well,  I  wonder  if— 
They  made  me  sick  on  that  dire  midnight 

hour 

I  tackled  one  so  ample  that  a  toad 
Could  well  have  sheltered  self  and  warty 

brood 
Beneath  its  shade.      Gad,  this  is  getting 

worse ! 

It's  rather  classic  though  to  sit  and  starve 
In  sight  of  plenty.     Tantalus  has  stood 
These  many  years  for  tropes  to  suit  all 

tastes 


180] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


A  regular  Atlas  for  the  nimble  wits. 

If  this  keeps  up  I'll  know  the  cow-boy's 
gripe 

Who  travels  half  a  day  without  a  bite — 

Oh,  here  at  last;  now  don't  excuse  yourself. 

A  lover's  reasons  need  no  diagram. 

It's    good    you   came    just   now.       Later, 
perhaps, 

A    ravening    man    had    seized    your    out 
stretched  hand, 

And,  famished,  played  the  dusky  cannibal 

With    you    the    releve.     Of    course!      She 
did? 

Why  bless  my  soul,  old  man!     But  come, 
you're  right, 

We'll  talk  it  over  here! 

(They  go  out  to  dinner.} 

The  Unelect. 

TOM. — Nobody's  home.      So  jes'  beneath 

these  steps, 

Close  to  the  basement  door  sit  still  and  wait. 
I  won't  be  long.     There's  lots  and  lots  of 

snaps 
Around  this  section. 

[181] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

MAGGIE. —  Yes,  but  hurry,  do! 

(Tom  goes  away  and  Maggie  huddles 
in  the  corner  with  ill  success  to  get  out  of 
the  driving  November  rain.) 
I  feel  so  queer  inside.     All  kind  o'  raw. 
Poor  Tom  don't  know  how  thin  and  gone 

I  am. 

I  ain't  yet  told  him.     He's  like  all  the  boys. 
He  never  sees  as  girls  do  what  is  up. 
I  ain't  eat  nothin'  since  the  little  scraps 
Old  Mommy  Foran  gave  me  t'other  night — 
It's  chilly  here.     I  wish  the  rain  would  stop. 
It  blows  so  awful,  too,  as  if  in  spite. 
It  'minds  me  of  the  night  the  p'lice  pinched 

dad. 

My  how  I  cried !    But  Mom  was  awful  glad. 
He  beat  her  so  and  never  had  a  cent. 
I  wish  he'd  died  in  place  of  poor  old  Mom. 
We'd  never  be  at  this.     Oh,  my,  this  rain! 
If  Tom  would  come,  and  it  would  only  stop ! 
It  seems  an  hour  since  he  went  away. 
I'll  take  a  peep.     The  wind  jes'  bites  your 

face. 
It  blows  all  ways  at  once.      My,  my,  the 

rain! 

[182] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


My  frock's  all  stickin'  to  me,  soakin'  wet — 
There's  men  at  supper  just  across  the  way. 
There's  lots  o'  lights  and  things — and,  ain't 

it  nice. 

I  wonder  how  it  truly  feels  to  eat 
Just  all  you  want  as  long  as  long  can  be? — 
I'm  trembly!     How  my  forehead  hurts! 
If  Tom  would  only  come.     But  p'rhaps  he's 

caught. 

But  no,  the  p'lice  won't  move  in  all  this  pour. 
Oh,  won't  it  ever  stop?  My  head,  my 

head ! — 

That  woman  said  'twas  wrong  for  us  to  lie, 
Even  to  get  a  bite  to  keep  us  'live. 
She  wore  black  silks  all  trimmed  expensive 

like. 

Mom  said  she'd  got  religion  on  the  brain. 
She  prayed  in  all  the  flats  and  wa'n't  afraid. 
She  said  we  needed  light.     I  wonder  why? 
I  never  heard  no  one  who  talked  so  queer. 
I've  got  the  yellow  card  she  gave  to  me. 
With  printing  on  both  sides.      I've  got  it 

here. 
Perhaps   it   calls   for   soup,    or   something 

else. — 

U83J 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAB 

I  feel  so  strange !    If  Tom  would  only  come ! 
The  lights  are  queer !    I  wish  the  rain  would 

stop! 
My    head!       Oh    my     .     .     .     the    lights 

.     .     .     are  going     .     .     .     out! 
Oh,  Tom!     .     .     . 

(She  faints.     After  an  interval  Tom 
returns  with  his  pitiful  spoil.) 
TOM  (eagerly). — Come,  Maggie,  wake!    I'm 

back  at  last! 
Oh,  my,  she  won't  wake  up.     She's  dead! 

She's  dead! 
Oh,  help!  my  sister's  dead! 

(Falls  sobbing  on  his  knee  beside  her 
body.  Crowd.  Then  after  an  interval 
policeman,  etc.) 

A  VOICE.—  She's  still  alive. 

She's  only  fainted.      Here,  keep  back  the 

crowd. 

Is  there  a  doctor?     Come,  don't  take  on  so! 
Your   sister   isn't   dead.     Don't    cry,    my 
lad! 

(To  policeman) 

Call  up  the  ambulance.      My  God,  she's 
thin! 

[184] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Here,  wrap  her  up  in  this.    Yes,  that  will  do. 
Keep  quiet,  sonny. 

POLICEMAN. —  Here  now,  keep  away, 

This    ain't    a    circus.      Give    the    girl     a 

chance. 

No   water;     she's   had  all  she   wants    to 
night, 
It's    something    stronger    that  she    needs. 

That's  what! 

(The  ambulance    arrives — To  ambu 
lance  doctor) 

'Tis  nothing  special,  doctor,  but  a  girl 
That's  fainted  on  the  street.     She's  coming 

to, 

But  mighty  weak  and  empty  seems  to  me. 
But   up   your   way   she'll   get   the  proper 

things. 
A  square  meal  more  than  medicine.     That's 

what. 
These  alley  rats  just  live  from  hand  to 

mouth. 

(To  boy) 
You  come  with  me  to-night. 

(Ambulance  drives  away,  crowd  dis 
perses.) 


185] 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 


The  Elect. 

FRED. — Look  at  the  crowd !     Oh,  there's  the 

ambulance. 
Somebody  must  be  hurt.     By  gad!     what 

rain! 

And  so  the  day  is  fixed.     Well,  count  on  me, 
Old    man,  I'll   see   you  through.      What! 

going  now? 
Well,    if   you   must.      Remember   me   for 

sure     .     .     . 

(Leaves  dining  room  together.     Later 

in  the  evening  Dr.  Greyville  of  the 

hospital  arrives.} 
FRED    (from   the   card   room). — Hello,    gay 

juggler  with  "afflictions  sore," 
WThat  grist  to-day  ?    A  new  and  rare  disease  ? 
Has    some    queer    mortal    found    a    novel 

scheme 

To  "shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil"  for  good, 
Or  suicide  disproved  your  lore  of  drugs? 
GREYVILLE. — There's    nothing  new.      I've 

had  a  busy  time. 

My  respite  only  lasts  till  twelve  o'clock. 
Is  Allen  here?     Ah,  yes,  I've  got  a  tale: 

[186] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


In  all  that  driving  rain,  a  beggar  girl 
Came  in  to-night.     So  thin,  she  made  me 

creep. 

Just  like  a  shriveled  hollow  reed;  a  reed 
With  all  the  pith  dried  out.     Half  dead  in 

fact. 
But  you  don't  care.      Now  don't  protest 

you  do. 
The  girl  won't  die.     Perhaps  'twere  better! 

Well,— 

A  problem  for  your  philosophic  pipe 
To  draw  upon,  well  mixed  with  Kidd  and 

Shaw, 
And  Mill  for  something  old  and    out  of 

date: 
She  had,  this  waif,  mere  bloodless  skin  and 

bone, 
WTithin    the    pocket     of     her    rain-soaked 

frock, 

Kept  there  as  if  a  precious,  valued  thing, 
An  open  sesame  to  sure  relief, 
A  tract,  entitled,    well— "Cfce   TBteaD    Of 

Life," 

No   doubt  the   donor,   as   the  cards  were 
dropped, 

1187] 


THE     WIFE      OF       POTIPHAR 

Saw  treasures  ripen  where  the  moth  and 

rust 
Corrupt    not;      for    herself,    you    know! 

What's  that? 
Why  yes,  I'll  take  a  hand.     Sniff,  hearts  or 

bridge? 


188] 


PARAPHRASES 


UEBER  ALLEN  GIPFELN  1ST  RUH' 

(After  Goethe) 

PEACE,  where  the  sun-glow  lingers 
On  the  crest; 
Silent  the  woodland  singers 
In  their  nest. 
As  the  zephyr  softly  dies 
A  wondrous  quiet  lies. 

Wait,  'tis  best; 

Thou,  too,  shalt  close  thine  eyes 
Soon,  in  rest! 


[191 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

ON  DRINKING 

(After  Anacreon) 

«TT  ~ 

H  vr? 


THE  earth  soaks  in  the  boundless  main, 
The  trees  drink  from  the  earth; 
The  sea's  refreshed  by  falling  rain 
And  so  adds  to  its  girth; 
The  sun  then  gulps  the  heaving  sea, 

And,  in  her  turn,  the  moon 
Takes  from  her  liege:   So  let  it  be 

With  me  my  friends,  a  boon. 
Why  quarrel  with  my  primal  need 
I  simply  follow  Nature's  lead? 


[192] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


LA  BONNE  CHANSON 

(After  Verlaine) 

THE  whispering  boughs, 
In  the  forest  dim 
Where  the  moonbeams  drowse, 
Raise  the  vesper  hymn 
In  the  glinted  dark:— 
Oh,  beloved,  hark! 

The  quiet  pool, 

'Neath  the  willow's  tress, 
In  the  evening's  cool, 

Speaks  of  peacefulness 
As  the  tired  winds  weep: — 
Oh,  beloved,  sleep! 

From  the  darkening  vast 

Benedictions  fall; 
Calm,  unsurpassed, 

With  the  night's  soft  pall, 
Mystery  its  dower: — 
'Tis  the  witching  hour. 


13  [ 193  ] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

LA  BOURREE 

(After  Catulle  Mendes) 

SURE  the  clogs  bind  the  feet, 
So  off  with  them!      There! 
What  beauty !    How  neat ! 
Ah,  I'm  fond  of  them  bare. 

Let  us  dance  with  the  link, 
In  the  torches'  full  glare. 

Ah,  the  feet  firm  and  pink, — 
Sure,  I'm  fond  of  them  bare ! 

The  husbands  limp  by 
Like  the  cure's  gray  mare, 

But  the  young  men  are  spry, 
And  they're  fond  of  them  bare. 

All  decked  in  their  frills 

They  have  come  to  compare 

(Ah,  the  sight  of  them  thrills 
And  I'm  fond  of  them  bare !) 

[194] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


In  the  glimmering  light, 
Ah,  the  ankles  so  fair 

('Tis  true  a  brave  sight 
And  I'm  fond  of  them  bare.) 

And  they  know  how  to  choose 
As  the  soft  feet  ensnare. 

Well, — put  on  the  shoes, 
But  I'd  rather  them  bare ! 


[195] 


THE  WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR 


[The  Wife  of  Potiphar  has  been  set 
to  music  by  Carl  Linn  Seiler,  of 
the  University  of  Pennsylvania.] 


THE  WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR 


DRAMATIC  EPISODE— IN  ONE  SCENE 


CHARACTERS      INVOLVED 

POTIPHAR;  an  aged  Egyptian  official  of  high 

rank.     (Out  of  action.) 
THE  WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR;   In  full  bloom  of 

youthful  wifehood. 
SARDIS;    an  Assyrian,  lover  to  the  wife  of 

Potiphar. 
JOSEPH;  chief  of  the  household  of  POTIPHAR, 

a  Hebrew. 
NEFERT;    chief  tiring-woman  to  the  wife  of 

POTIPHAR,  and  confidante. 

In  scene. — Eunuchs;  Tiring-women;  Slaves; 
Snake-charmers;  Dancing  girls;  etc. 

Out  of  scene. — Priests  and  populace  in  pro 
cession,  music,  etc. 

[199] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 


THE  SETTING 

(The  apartment  of  the  wife  of  Potiphar  in 
the  compound  of  the  palace,  on  the  main 
corridor  and  facing  on  the  large  court. 
Mats,  divans  and  low  seats  in  Egyptian 
style.  At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  two  eunuchs 
guard  either  side  of  the  door,  while  two 
tiring-women  assisted  by  meaner  slaves  busy 
themselves  preparing  the  room  for  the  arrival 
of  their  mistress  from  the  great  ceremonial 
at  the  Court  of  Pharaoh.  The  snake-charmers 
ply  their  trade,  and  the  jugglers  and  traveling 
dancers  divert  the  servants,  and  as  the  women 
rearrange  the  clothes-presses,  jewel-caskets, 
chests  for  the  garments  of  state,  they  indulge 
freely  in  idle  gossip  about  their  mistress,  who 
is  returning  prematurely  from  the  court, 
having  feigned  an  illness.  There  is  a  soft 
light  from  latticed  windows  through  which 
are  heard  the  sounds  of  the  outer  world,  while 
at  the  sound  of  the  trumpets  announcing 
the  approach  of  the  wife  of  Potiphar,  the 
players  and  dancers  retire  hurriedly,  being 
ordered  out  of  the  room  by  a  servant.) 

{200J 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


THE  SCENE 

A  SERVANT. — Out  with  ye,  baggage,  out, 

begone!     Out,  out! 

We  have  our  tasks.    Out,  out,  ye  baggage, 
out! 

(To  maids:) 
About  your  work,  ye  wenches ! 

(Then  to  the  recreating  players:) 
Out,  begone! 

(As  the  players  retire,  and  the  servants 
resume  their  work,  two  maids  of  the  wife 
of  Potiphar  enter  breathlessly  and  greet 
their  fellow-servants  and  start  to  gossip 
in  a  lively,  bustling  manner.) 
FIRST  WOMAN. — We  left  our  lady  dallying 

at  the  gate. 
SECOND  WOMAN. — "Tis  well  we  fared  ahead ; 

our  lady  might 

A  SERVANT  (interrupting). — We  hear  strange 

rumors 

SECOND     WOMAN. — Yea,     that     Pharaoh's 

glance 

Consumed  her  quite  was  seen  of  all. 
The  bearer  of  the  wine  cups  tells  the  tale. 


[201 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

FIRST  WOMAN. — I  had  it  from  the  harpist 
at  the  door. 

None  met  the  royal  gaze  so  fearlessly 

And  none  was  there  so  fair  to  look  upon. 

And  yet,  the  gossip  runs,  with  all  her 
gems 

In  hair,  on  neck,  with  girdle  thickly  sown, 

Though  all  the  lords  of  On  wait  her  caprice, 

The  wife  of  Potiphar  had  other  thoughts 

That  set  soft  yearning  in  her  liquid  eyes 

And  made  her  seem  a-faint. 

SECOND  WOMAN. — But  who,  in  sooth, 

Could  hold  my  lady's  favor  'gainst  my 
lord's? 

FIRST  WOMAN. — None  know,  and  Khemat 
says— 

SECOND  WOMAN. — Ah,  yes,  that  fool! 

What  courtyard  clatter  sold  he  thee  to-day? 

The  very  stones  and  halls  do  tell  him  things 

To  startle  camel-boys  fresh  from  the  wilds. 

FIRST  WOMAN. — Out,  out  upon  your  shrew 
ish  tongue! 

SECOND  WOMAN. — Well,  now! 

FIRST  WOMAN. — Time  was  you  hung  on 
Khemat's  every  word. 

[202] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


SECOND  WOMAN. — Well,  fare  ye  on.      I'll 

listen  with  all  ears. 
FIRST    WOMAN. — So — Khemat    says    that 

things  were  all  askew, 
That  while  the  ceremonies  moved  in  state 
My    lady    sought    escape.       Lord    Sardis 

watched 

SECOND   WOMAN. — Lord    Sardis!     Pah!     I 

spit  when  he  goes  by. 
There's  evil  in  his  look.      The  gods  my 

judge ! 

His  eyes  are  red  within  from  hidden  fire, 
They  glow  as  blood-stones  from  his  own  far 

East. 

Old  Mafra  says — who  once  saw  Babylon, 
As  messenger  from  Pharaoh  to  the  King — 
That  monstrous  deeds  are  common  there, 

that  men 

By  wizard  arts  lose  shape  and  human  form, 
Whilst  fearsome  animals  become  as  human 
kind. 
FIRST  WOMAN. — Old  Mafra  prattles  like  a 

rattling  gourd. 

If  Sardis  glared  'tis  not  so  passing  strange 
My  lady  took  it  ill. 


[203 


THE     WIPE     OF     POTIPHAB 

SECOND    WOMAN. — Yah!     Sardis!     yah! 
I  know  his  ways.     An  asp  among  the  reeds. 

For  mind  ye,  wench,  his  favor 

FIRST    WOMAN    (cautiously}. — Hush    thee, 

friend ! 
What  secret,  hidden   thing   thou   wouldst 

remark 

Had  better  go  unsaid;  for  who  are  we, 
In  service  to  our  lord,  idly  to  talk 
About  our  betters? 
SECOND  WOMAN  (sarcastically}. — Yah,  what 

airs  indeed! 

Since  when  has  gossip  pained  thee ? 

(Scurry  of  feet  and  bustle  outside.) 
FIRST  MESSENGER. — Prepare ! 
Ye   chattering   maids,    set   everything    to 

rights. 

Our  lady's  nigh. 
(Retires.) 

SECOND  MESSENGER. — See  to  it  all  is  well! 
The  wife  of  Potiphar  is  at  the  gate 
And  all  the  favored  ones  of  On  attend. 
The  crowds  acclaim  her.     Lo!   she   steps 

ashore 
Without  her  consort.    Potiphar  delays, 

[204] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


By  royal  call  he  deals  with  public  needs 

And  holds  him  counsel  in  the  temple 

(Shouts  and  fanfares  in  the  distance.} 
(Exit.) 

FIRST  WOMAN. — Ah, 

Haste  thee  thyself,  we  have  been  long  pre 
pared  ! 
SECOND  WOMAN. — Prepared  indeed!     None 

faithfuller  than  we! 
SECOND  MESSENGER  (returning).— 
Curse  ye  for  disputatious  jades !    But  soft, 
My  lady's  in  the  hall.     Prepare!     Prepare! 
(Great  bustle  and  confusion  as  ser- 
vants,  slaves,  precede  the  wife  of  Poti- 
phar,  who  enters,  attired  magnificently, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  Nefert,  her  chief 
tiring-woman.     As  her  maids  surround 
her  she  sinks  negligently  on  the  divan, 
listening  to  their  murmured  welcome.) 
WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR  (to  the  tiring-women): 
Peace,  peace,  good  folk!    And  haste  ye  to 
your  work! 

(Turning  to  Nefert.) 

Nefert,  I  faint!     These  garments  bind  me 
sore. 

[205] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Remove  the  jewels!      How  their  weights 

oppress ! 

This  massy  circlet  cuts  my  head  in  twain. 
I  fain  would  rest  me  after  these  fatigues, 
These  irksome  ceremonies  of  the  court, 
Where   I   must  play   the  puppet  part  to 

please, 

And  keep  my  lord  in  favor  with  the  King; 
Nor  lose  this  luxury  that  is  my  life. 

(Muses,  and  after  a  brief  interval,  to 
her  women:} 

But  go  ye  now,  and  make  ye  holiday. 
I  rest  alone.     The  higher  duties  call 
And  I  release  ye  from  my  service.     Go! 

(Claps  her  hands  and  all  retire  save 
Nefert,  who  on  a  signal  from  her  mis 
tress  hastens  to  her  side  and  awaits 
her  will.  With  more  animation  her 
mistress  cries  out:) 

No  prying  eyes!     My  mirror,  Nefert,  quick! 

(Gazes  at  herself  in  various  poses  for 

some  time,  whilst  Nefert  puts  away  her 

jewels.      Then  as  if  satisfied  exclaims:) 

Much   as   of    old.      Ah   no,    not    on    the 

wane, 

[206] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


Not  on  the  wane,  but  ripe,  full  ripe 

(Then    quickly,    as    if   putting    into 
execution  a  fond  resolve:) 

To-day! 

To-day!     I  must  no  longer  check  desire 
Nor  hold   my   burning  love  in   self-made 

bounds. 

Ho,  Nef ert !  'tis  my  urgent  will 
That  Joseph — he  who  came  in  humble  guise, 
But  now,  by  grace  of  Potiphar,  is  free 
And  raised  to  high  estate — await  me  here. 
Our    household    duties    need    his    special 

care. 

Then,    to   the   temple,    where   the   people 
crowd. 

Haste  thee !  away !  No,  no,  forgetful  I 

(Claps  her  hand  and  calls  to  slave:) 
Attend  me  here  and  find  the  jasper  bowl 
In  which  I  placed  a  wreath  this  early  morn 
And  fetch  it  me.    Quick!  quick! 

(Slave  disappears  and  quickly  returns 

with  a  wreath  of  white  water-lilies  or 

lotuses  which  she  hands  to  her  mistress, 

who  in  turn  hands  them  over  to  Nefert.) 

Ah,  Nefert,  haste, 

[207] 


THE     WIFE     OP     POTIPHAB 

Before    the    goddess    plact    these    smiling 

flowers 
Enwreathed   for    Hathor   by   these   hands 

alone, 
Though  born  of  Nilish  mud,  sweet  as  the 

breeze, 

And  softly  white  as  wool  of  Caanan's  hills, 
Or  as  the  ostrich  plumes  from  land  of  Punt, 
Hang  them  upon  the  altar,  there  await, 
And  when  the  auspices  are  read,  return ! 
A  coney  crossed  my  path,  a  bird  fell  dead, 
The  crescent  moon  last  night  sank  dipt  in 

blood. 

Away,  and  let  thy  prayers  win  me  peace! 
I  must  find  favor  in  her  sight  to-day. 

(Nefert  retires  quickly.  The  wife  of 
Potiphar  loosens  her  girdle,  falls  back 
gracefully  upon  the  divan  and  waits 
the  coming  of  Joseph  with  a  confident 
air.  Brief  silence.  The  house  is  still, 
but  afar  off  the  occasional  chants  and 
shouts  resound  which  die  away  to  a 
faint  murmur  as  Joseph's  footsteps  in 
the  corridor  are  heard  and  he  appears 
at  the  threshold.  With  inquiring  cour- 

1208) 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


tesy  he  halts  and  awaits  the  word  of  his 
mistress,  who  waves  him  in  with  an 
easy  gesture  and  addresses  him  in  low, 
liquid  tones:} 

Thou  nearest  afar  the  distant,  broken  shouts 
Of  those  who  throng  the  temple  gates  of 

Ptah, 

That  rise  and  fall  as  wind  among  the  palms, 
Or  murmur  of  the  Nile  when  at  the  full. 

(Brief  silence  while  the  wife  of  Poti- 
phar    negligently    rearranges    her    robe, 
all    the    while    looking    significantly    at 
Joseph,  who  is  frankly  puzzled.} 
The  fete  holds  Potiphar,  whose  duties  press 
And  keep  him  captive  till  the  set  of  sun; 
Whilst  I,  a-faint,  the  privilege  of  my  sex, 
Await  thee  here,  knowing  thy  daily  round 
Had  naught  to  stay  it  in  the  priestly  show. 
For  what,  to  thee,  the  mummied  Gods  of 

On? 

Art  thou  not  servant  to  a  mightier  lord? 
Nor  self  art  seen,  nor  offerings  from  thee  grace 
The   inner   shrines.      Thou    laborest   here 

instead, 
Indifferent  to  the  lofty  ones  they  praise. 

u  [209] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

And  yet,  methinks,  thy  spirit  at  its  wont 
Is  not  austere;   thy  modesty  but  mask 
That  hides  the  passion  of  a  soul  unstirred; 

Thy  comeliness 

(Joseph,  whose  embarrassment  has 
been  increasing,  starts,  and  despite  the 
effort  of  his  mistress  to  continue,  cries 
out  as  follows:) 

JOSEPH. — O  mistress,  what  am  I! 
Oh,  what  am  I  to  hear  these  words?    for 

know, 

Humble  in  self,  in  household  life  a  slave, 
From  shepherd  stock,  familiar  to  the  fields, 
No  graces  mark  me.   Let  me  to  my  work. 
I  know  not  palace  ways,  and,  out  of  place, 
As  all  the  man  within  me  cries  beware, 
I  ask,  I  beg  that  I  may  go  in  peace 

To  duties  waiting 

WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR. — Ah,  sweet  slave,  my 

love, 

List  thou  to  my  refrain  and  hear  me  out, 
Nor  lose  thy  interest  through  this  halting 

tongue. 

For  I,  whilst  nature  sulks  at  noontide  heats, 
Impatient  lie,  intent  to  know  thy  heart; 

[210] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


To  know  thee  not  as  slave,  but  equal  mate, 
Companion  of  these  all-enticing  arms; 
The  sharer  of  my  too  unsated  love. 
Lo !  I,  voluptuous  by  sweet  Athor's  grace, 
Neglected  by  an  aged  and  foolish  lord, 
Long,  long,  have  loved  thee,  sinned  in  eye 

and  soul 
When     thou     wert    near;    yea,     watched, 

unknown  to  thee, 
Thy  every  move,  thy  working  hours,  thy 

rests, 

The  lift  of  shoulders  in  the  furrowed  field, 
The  sinuous  gleam  at   play   in  courtyard 
pool. 

(Joseph  starts  again,  more  and  more 
perturbed,  and  takes  a  step  toward  the 
wife  of  Potiphar  as  if  to  remonstrate; 
but  her  resistless  flow  of  words  is  not 
stopped,  but  gains  in  passionate  inten 
sity  as  he  interrupts  her.) 
JOSEPH  (interrupting). — O  mistress,  let  me 

serve  unseen,  unknown, 
Unknown,  unseen,  or  I  must  flee  this  house ! 
WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR  (continuing). — No,  no, 
my  love.    Perchance  my  words  seem  wild. 


211] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

But  let  them  be  as  music  to  thy  soul, 
Inviting  slumber  on  my  heaving  breast. 
Oh,  let  them  be  thy  law,  a  newer  code, 
So  potent  that  thy  flesh  will  cry  "  I  yield " 
Ere  yet  thy  lips  have  framed  the  words 

"full  won." 

Be  not  abashed.     Come,  tell  me  of  thy  god, 
That  hidden  one  whose  worship  fires  thine 

eye 

And  puts  a  song  upon  thy  willing  lips. 
Thy  tasks,  thy  plans,  thy  hopes  I  fain  would 

know, 

The  sweet  desires  of  springtide  in  thy  blood; 
For  youth  doth  diadem  thy  shapely  head, 
And   bursts   in   beauty   on   thy   darkened 

cheeks. 

Thy  chin,  decision;   e'en  thy  stature  tells 
Thy  office,  and,  if  countenance  belie, 
The  elder's  place,   what  boots   it  sith   it 

speaks 
Of  pulsing  health,  of  vigor — Ah,  of  love ! 

(At  this  moment  Joseph's  embarrass 
ment  is  most  obvious.  In  quick  suc 
cession,  emotional  storms,  a  stern  resolve, 
pity,  disdain,  endurance  and  determina- 

[212] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


tion    to    hold   himself  in    check    sweep 
over  him,  and  he  again  advances  toward 
the  wife  of  Potiphar  as  if  to  check  her; 
but  fails  to  stop  her  bold  address  as  in 
greater  excitement  she  continues:} 
Deny  me  not!   No  longer  I  command 
As  mistress  of  this  lordly  house,  these  lands, 
But,  clad  as  dancing  girl  who  plies  her  trade, 
I  yield  myself  ecstatic  at  thy  feet. 
Mine  equal,  more  than  equal;   I,  the  slave, 
Beseech  thee.     Give  me  joy,  a  free  return, 
A  quick  response  to  this  my  sacrifice. 
Entice  me  with  thy  lips,  thy  firstling  beard, 
For  lo!   I   burn,   my   love — shame  to  the 

winds — 
And  plead  for  close  embrace  of  sinewed 

arms, 

Arms  dark  with  sun,  strong  with  the  sea 
son's  toil, 
And  tell  thee,  what  thou  garnerest  here  is 

prize 

Above  all  prizes,  gift  of  Maut  indeed! 
I  would  be  thine,  reveal  my  very  self, 
Would  risk  mine  all,  to  lift  thee,  captive,  up 
To  newer  honors,  yea,  to  great  delights 


1213 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Thou  hast  not  dreamed,  ineffable. 

For  race  is  naught,  and  rank  falls  with  the 
belt; 

Encouched,  thou  rulest  as  the  King. 

(Joseph  outraged  in  feeling  throws 
up  both  hands  as  if  in  tragic  command, 
and  looking  straight  at  his  mistress,  who 
for  the  moment  recoils  on  the  divan, 
but  as  if  for  a  spring,  says:} 

JOSEPH. — Halt  thee,  woman;  stay  thy  mad 
dened  words! 

O   wife    of   Potiphar,    what   thoughts  are 
thine ! 

What  boldness  stirs  thy  mind!     Thou  art 
distraught. 

The   banquet   wine   was   served   o'er-long, 
o'er-strong. 

Calm  thee.     Forget  not  who  thou  wert  and 
art — 

The  daughter  of  a  royal  line,  the  spouse 

Of  him  who  rules  a  hundred  willing  slaves. 

And  I,  forget  me;  let  me  be  as  naught, 

As  one  thou  wot'st  not  of,  save  as  thy  house 

Reflects  through  duty  done  his  every  care. 

Have  I  e'er  failed  in  service  unto  thee? 

1214] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Or,  niggard,  grudging  as  my  office  grew, 

As  step  by  step,  I  touched  the  topmost 
tread, 

O'erlooked  the  wife  in  favor  of  the  lord? 

Why  should  I  sin  against  thy  caste, 

Against  this  sheltering  home  and  Potiphar, 

Against  my  God,  myself  and  thee? 

Oh,  check  this  madness,  lest  upon  its  train 

Crowds  ruin  for  this  house  and  all  within. 

I  must  away  about  my  lord's  commands. 

WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR. — Ah,  not  aloof,  my  love, 
if  but  desire 

Would  fruit,  my  yield  with  thee  an  hundred 
fold! 

Do  I  not  tempt  thee? 

(Joseph,  though  realizing  his  danger, 
has  regained  his  composure  and  again 
advances  as  if  to  reason  with  the  wife 
of  Potiphar,  and  in  answer  to  her  ques 
tion  cries  as  if  in  religious  exaltation:) 

JOSEPH    (as    if   in    prayer). — Tempt    me? 
Hear  my  vow, 

Jehovah,  Jireh,  God  of  Abram,  hear! 

Yea,  hear  me  for  my  vows  still  unreleased, 

God  of  the  silent  reaches,  God  of  light, 

[215J 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Of  a  long-brooding  people,  duty  bound 
The  tense  devotion  of  a  youth's  first  oath, 
Hold,  hold  me  to  it,  dull  the  senses, 

Shut  out  the  world  as  if  but  seeming 

(To  wife  of  Potiphar:)     Check! 
Oh,  check  this  madness,  wife  of  Potiphar! 
Forfend   against  thyself!     Mine    eyes   are 

closed, 
My  ears  now  full  estopped,  blind,  blind  and 

deaf. 

Jehovah,  Jireh !  He  indeed  will  hear, 
Will  hearken  to  my— 

WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR. — Art  thou  granite  then, 
A  being  limned  upon  the  templed  walls; 
Some   graven   image,    squat   of   trunk,   in 

wood? 

No,  no,  my  love,  entice!  Am  I  not  fair? 
No  sleek  attendant  with  her  gauzy  robe 
Can    e'en    compare    with    these    revealed 

charms. 

Many  the  years  ere  yet  my  beauty  fades, 
And  dried  as  Ramses  in  the  tombs,  men  pass 
Nor  turn  to  see  the  parchment  of  these 

breasts, 
The  stiffened  limbs,  the  glassy  stare  of  eye. 

[216] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


To-day  is  certainty,  aught  else  is  doubt. 

To-day's  for  love  and  life;  to-morrow,  pah! 

The  body  rules  to-day,  so  yield  thee,  love, 

Nor  fear,  thy  path  but  leads 

(Joseph's  composure  gives  way  as  he 
sees  the  insatiate  passion  of  the  wife 
of  Potiphar,  and  with  a  look  of  horror 
on  his  face  he  turns  as  if  to  flee,  but 
does  not;  instead  throws  his  cloak  over 
his  head  in  gesture  of  despair  at  his 
inability  to  bring  his  mistress  to  her 
senses,  crying:} 

JOSEPH. — But  leads,  but  leads 

To  the  swift  hell  of  temple  votaries 

Ishtar  and  Hathor  and  the  wiles  that  kill; 

Then  sated,  beastlike  to  the  carrion  heaps 

Forget  when  use  is  o'er ! 

THE  WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR  (in  rage). — Great 
Set  his  face! 

What,  slave,  thou  spurn'st  me  then,  thou 
wouldst  away? 

And  this  to  me,  to  me,  the  wife  of  Potiphar, 

Consort  and  mistress  of  thy  august  lord? 

Have  I  been  wanton,  jested  with  a  fool, 

Laid  ope  my  beauty  to  the  thieving  air, 

[217] 


THE     WIFE      OF     POTIPHAR 

Unsealed  my  charms  to  dull,  unseeing  eyes, 
Unloosed  my  girdle  that  a  slave  might  jeer? 
Ah  gods,  Osiris,  judge  me  in  my  rage! 
Thou  shalt  not,  Jew!    thou  shalt  not  thus 

escape ! 

Woman  and  weak,  and  stricken  to  the  heart, 
I'll  test  thy  idle  sinew,  hold  thee  fast 
Despite  thy  chaste  and  miscreated  fear, 
I'll  touch  thee  limb  to  limb,  and  know  thy 

flesh, 

Despite  thy  god  will  try  thy  very  reins, 
And  prove  his  deep  protection  is  a  snare. 
Closely  I'll  cling,  unrobed,   and  hair  un 
loosed, 
And  dare  thee  to  contend! 

(Throws   herself  on   Joseph,    tearing 
off  her  robe  and  seizing  him  about  the 
waist.      Joseph  wrenches  himself  free, 
but  she  holds  him  loosely  by  the  girdle.) 
JOSEPH. — Woman,  away ! 
Though  thou  indeed  art  mistress  of  all  here, 
And  I  thy  slave,  no  coward  blood  is  mine, 
Nor  otherwise  unknown  the  call  of  flesh. 
I  strive  with  sin,  not  thee;    thee  would  I 
help 

[218] 


WITH     OTHER     POEMS 


To  exorcise  this  fury  that  impels 
And  drives  thee  to  betrayal  of  thy  sex, 
That  flaunts  itself  upon  thy  crimsoned  face 
And  in  the  wanton  carriage  tells  thy  shame 

Before  thy  gods  and  mine 

WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR. — Thou  pratest  thus? 
Still  adamant  and  chill  as  sunless  shrines 
Thou   wouldst   away   in   unconcealed   dis 
dain? 
(Savagely). — So  be  it  then,  but  know  thou 

still  art  mine, 

I'll  have  thy  badge  of  office,  strip  thee  clean, 
Expose  thy  villainy  to  all  the  house 
And  hold  thy  life  at  my  accusing  word. 
(Tenderly  and  distractedly). — Ah  no,  what 

say  I?   Stay!   Still  naught  but  scorn? 
Then,  wretch,  away,  lest  anger  strike  thee 

dead! 

What  say  I?     Ptah!   I  faint  with  growing 
rage ! 

(Joseph  tears  himself  away,  leaving 
his  girdle  in  her  hand,  and  flees  rapidly 
down  the  corridor.  For  a  moment  of 
speechless  rage  the  wife  of  Potiphar 
is  silent,  then  bursts  forth:) 

[219] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Speech  chokes!    alone!    alone!    scorned  by 

a  slave! 

Revenge!   alone!   forsworn!   Osiris,  help! 
Scorned  by   a  stripling,   scorned  and  left 

afire, 
My    passion    at    its    flood-tide,    flouted, 

scorned ! 
Scorned  by  a  slave  without  a  slave's  fierce 

lusts, 
Scorned  by  a  slave  who  knew  not  servile 

use! 

And  I,  the  helpmate  of  a  gibbering  dolt 
Who  dangles  at  the  temple  making  vows, 
Whilst  I  in  very  heyday  of  my  bloom 
Meet  insult  where  I   fain    would  quench 

desire. 

(Falls  weeping  in  hysteric  rage  upon 
the  couch.  Then  silence.  Then  re 
sumes:) 

Unhappy  me,  unhappy  in  my  quest ! 
Shall    I    live  loveless,    though   the    many 

haunt 

My  steps  and  oft  in  bold  presumption  force 
Attention  for  the  favor  of  an  hour, 
And  find  myself  bereft,  forsaken  of  all, 

[220] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Except  my  pampered  oldlings,  Sardis,  Mnft? 
But,  oh,  ye  gods !  their  barbered  beauty  palls, 
Perfumed,  familiar  to  the  finger  tips. 

(The  fierce  desire  returns.  She  rises 
up,  crouching  upon  the  mats  and  clutches 
the  girdle  fondly.) 

I'd  play  the  tigress,  seek  a  ruthless  mate; 
Be  desert  lioness  in  blaze  of  sun ! 
(Muses;  then  breaks  out:) 
His  badge  of  office!   Is  there  rest  in  rage! 
Shall  I  wreak  vengeance  on  the  helpless 

cloth, 

Who  cannot  hold  the  master  in  this  leash? 
No!  no!  Ah,  goddess,  Hathor,  be  not  deaf; 
Nor  blind  to  what  thy  altars  bear  from  me! 
Give  me  the  Jew.  Youth  fresh  of  heart 

and  limb! 

In  vain!    in  vain!    naught  but  the  telltale 
scarf ! 

(Again  sinks  despairingly,  but  as 
footsteps  are  heard  in  the  corridor, 
believing  it  Potiphar,  she  quickly  re 
arranges  her  disordered  robe  in  part, 
keeps  the  scarf  in  hand  and  cries  out 
for  revenge,  expecting  to  be  overheard:) 

[221] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Ye  faithful,  loved  and  looser  deities, 
Be  with  me  and  avenge  me  for  this  wrong, 
Dark  desecration  of  the  hearth  and  home 
The  sanctuary  of  Lord  Potiphar! 
Shall  I  the  wife  bear  insult  from  a  slave, 
That  dareth,  as  vermin,  when  the  sun  is  gone, 
To  scurry  forth  and  lift  a  loathsome  head, 
To  equal  those  the  gods  have  set  on  high, 
To  bandy  words  and  seek  with  coarse— 

(Sardis  suddenly  enters  and  the  wife 

of  Potiphar,   terrified,   hides   the   scarf 

and  cries  out:) 
Ah,  gods! 

SARDIS    (savagely    and    implacable). — Thou 
well  mayest  cry!    Thou  thought'st  me 
far  away, 
Fled'st  me  at  the  court  and  fail'd'st  me — 

Woman,  speak! 

Thou  wert  not  at  the  temple.     Speak,  I  say ! 
Thou  wert  not  at  the  temple.    Speak! 
WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR.— 

(Still  not  in  full  control  of  her  senses, 

but  desperately  endeavoring  to  gain  time 

and  recover  her  wits:) 
What,  thou? 

[222] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Not  Potiphar?    But  thou?    I  rave,  I  dream. 
I  failed  thee  at  the  temple?    True,  my  love, 
Thy  sudden  entry  agitates  my  soul. 
But  hear  me:   Lo!    an  illness  overcame, 
And  here  at  rest  I  waited  thy  return, 
Knowing  full  well  by  that  rich  love  that's 

thine 

Thou  wouldst  not  tarry,  but  to  my  relief. 
Heardest  thou   my   ravings?     Ah,  believe 

them  not; 

I  slept  and  woke  in  terror  of  a  dream. 
A  midday  madness  held  me,  and  I  raved 
With  all  my  wits  in  sudden,  hideous  rout. 
What    said    I,    love?       Come,  lie    in    soft 

embrace. 
Thou  heardest  me  then?     I  seem  to  thee 

distraught? 

'Tis  true;   but,  worn  of  soul  awaiting  thee, 
Delay  did  prey  upon  my  troubled  mind, 
And  sharp  desire  of  thee  did  in  my  sleep 
So  fitful  take  a  strange  and  vagrant  form. 
No,  no,  my  love !  I  burned  alone  for  thee. 

(Holding  out  her  arms  in  order  to 
overcome  the  suspicions  of  Sardis,  the 
girdle  of  Joseph  is  revealed.) 

[223] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

SARDIS  (sarcastically  repeating  her  words).— 
Alone  for  me!  Alone  for  me!  And  this? 

(Pointing  derisively  at  scarf,  and  then 
sardonically  as  if  in  the  humor  of  it  all:) 
Ha!  Ha!  I  see  it  all!  I  see  it  all! 
Thou  wert  not  at  the  temple.     True.     Ah, 

true! 
But  here  thou  kept'st  the  tryst.     And  this! 

And  this ! 

A  tender  token  of  his  love,  his  scarf. 
Ha!   Ha!   alone  for  me!    alone  for  me! 
Thou  baggage!   this  soft  snare  shall  damn 

thee  quite! 

'Tis  witness  of  the  cattle  thou  wouldst  lift 
From  out  the  mire  to  mingle  with  th'  elect? 
For  this  thou  f  ail'd'st  me.  Oh,  ye  gods  of  ill ! 
Betrayed,  betrayed  like  Potiphar.  His 

scarf ! 
WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR. — The  scarf!    the  scarf! 

Oh,  hear  me,  Sardis!    I 

(Frantically). — The   scarf!       Yea,    yea, — I 

know, — the  scarf — 'tis  mine! 
A  household  weaving.     Yea,  the  truth,  the 

truth. 
I  swear  it,  Sardis.     Harden  not  thy  heart. 


[224 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


The  truth,  by  Isis,  but  the  truth !  for  thee 
I  waited;   thee  alone,  the  house — 

(Sardis   advances  in   black   anger  as 
if  to  strike  her,  as  his  suspicion  grows.) 
SARDIS. — A  murrain  on  thy  lying  tongue;   a 
plague 

Upon  thee,   dost  thou  think  that  I,  that 
j 

ByPtah!    Why  wait  to  parley?   why  delay? 
Thy  guilt,  O  froward  heart — thy  guilt 
Outflames  in  face!   Am  I  so  humbly  born 
That  thou  cans't  spurn  me  as  a  river  slave 
Or  field   hand   stabling   with   his   master's 

beasts? 

Shall  Babylon  play  second  at  thy  gate 
And  take  the  favors  that  a  menial  leaves? 
By  Bel  and  Marduk!  woman,  thou— 
WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR. — Ah,  gods! 
I'll  tell  thee  all.     Revenge  me,  love,  revenge ! 
The  Jew — stole  in — the  house — was  echo- 
less— 

I  here, 7— alone — awaiting  thee — the  truth— 
And  I,  Osiris  judge,  was  taken — by  force, 
Against  my  outraged  will  was  forced  to  hear 
The  craven  insults  of  an  unripe  mind. 

15  [  225  ] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

Fear  gave  me  strength.     The  thought  of 

thee  made  bold. 
I  tore  myself  from  out  his  impious  clasp,— 

he  fled- 

And  fleeing,  coward-wise,  I  seized  the  scarf 
As    witness    of    this    wrong — to    show     it 

thee 

And  let  it  win  redress — a  quick  revenge 
Against   this    upstart,    vile,    presumptuous 

Jew. 

(Sardis  listens,  unbelievingly.} 
Thou  hearest  me  not!    That  look!    Ah,  be 

not  cruel! 

My  love,  my  love,  entice !  All,  all  for  thee ! 
Believe  me,  on  the  shrine  of  Ptah  I  swear 
Not  false!    not  false!    True— 
SARDIS    (snarling,   seizes   the   scarf). — G'rr! 

thou  liest!    True? 
Then  black  is  white.     Here,  wear  thy  badge 

fore'er, 

And  let  the  tomb  depict  thy  history; 
Case-gilded  for  the  final  burial  rites. 
In  scarlet  let  thy  wantonness  appear ! 
(Savagely). — Thou  wert  not  at  the  temple. 

That  is  truth. 

[226] 


WITH      OTHER     POEMS 


Nor  e'er  shall  be.      The  truth,  by  Ptah! 

Betray ! 
Betray  me  now,  thou  witch  of  Memphis ! 

(Sardis  takes  the  scarf  he  has  seized 

and  quickly  throws  it  round  her  neck 

in  a  loose  noose  which  he  surely  tightens.} 

WIFE  OF  POTIPHAR. — Help! 

O  Sardis,  stay  thy  hand !    Ho,  Nefert,  help ! 

The  scarf !   It  chokes !   Ah,  Sardis — hold  thy 

wrath ! 
My  love  of  loves — Have  mercy!      Oh,   I 

choke — 
A   dream — an   evil   dream — naught   else — 

the  truth. 
O    love — I    gasp — Is    this — the    clasp — of 

love? 
Osiris,  save  me — Oh,  I  die — of  love. 

Osiris  judge! — of  love — of 

(Falls  back  dead  at  the  feet  of  Sardis., 
who  spurns  the  body  with  his  foot  and 
hastily  leaves  as  the  songs  of  those 
returning  from  the  temple  are  heard  on 
the  highway.  Ominous  pause.,  and  then 
Nefert  hurrying  in  through  a  private 
doorway,  is  seen  in  terror  carrying  the 

[227] 


THE     WIFE     OF     POTIPHAR 

wreath,    mysteriously    brown    and    sere. 

With  horror-stricken  countenance  at  the 

inauspiciousness  of  the  omen  she  cries 

out:} 

NEFERT. — O  wife  of  Potiphar,  the  wreath— 
(Then  discovering  the  dead  body,  with 

a  piercing  shriek  she  exclaims:) 
Fulfilled! 

(And    drops    in    a  faint    beside    her 

dead    mistress.       The    wreath  falls    on 

the  body  of  the  wife  of  Potiphar.) 

(QUICK  CURTAIN.) 


[228] 


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